Dark Moon Mood
 
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:

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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.