She waits
’til you are sleeping —
lights a fire
deep in the bone
and fills the bowl
with blood and thunder,
sends all the undefended
to lead the way
through a labyrinth
of riches
you can sense
but never touch.

Strips you down
to sunburned skin —
with her hard hand,
is it any wonder
you are weeping?
All torment
is the crone’s choosing,
the mother’s sorrow.

Your hands
are still untried,
young and sweet.
Lift up
all the broken things,
carry them
with you
until you can find
the most beautiful place
for rest.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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