Like fisherman throwing their lines, she casts her spells…imagines the universe as an ocean, conceives of elementals, hungry for bait, waiting to nibble at her
She flows, unapologetic of her girth, does not flinch at barges scoring her surface, nor paddle boats laden with curiosity. Confident in her fluidity, she
Sun slices through slumber – Day, wrapped in cerulean, beckons. Not an early riser, I balk, until sensibility intrudes, argues autumn’s passing – I concede,
Two-tongued – speaking both heart and mind – complex languages, whose nuances I’ve never quite mastered, yet am conversant in. It’s a constant learning to
Intuition and compassion combined with knowledge an effective healer make, yet, historically, women applying such skills – labelled witches – burnt at the stake. The
Ancestral circles steeped in lore – symbolism lost, and imminent – Geometric rhythms play with destiny, ascribe fates. (For Willow Poetry’s What Do You See?