Just now, just when the trees bent backward in the most heathen devotion to my mid-spring wanderlust, just when I thought I was in imminent danger of becoming ordinary, I caught a glimpse of the old feral woman who sits perched atop my low-drumming heart and tosses pebbles at my ribs. She doesn't think much of me, this cunning and feathered hag, but I will write her a dark moon poem tonight, just the same:
Blessed be this cackling Crone
On my blood, she skipped a stone
It hopped just twice then struck a bone
A playful wish that she be known.
In her reverence, I'll recite these lines on repeat through the night until sleep takes me, until she's coaxed to crawl out my mouth and takes a giggling vow to grandmother my slow-swelling joy on these warmer days.