Season

In the embers of spring I warm the cackles of my heart. My hair aflame, rosy red like fresh loam cut by a silver hand.

Black ash crumbles and dries in my hands as I spread it on the cherry leaves. The slugs that parasite it’s essence shrivel in the sun. I feel sad for then but know enough will survive to pass to the next generation. They will also have me to spread the spring ash on there leaves. I look and see the ever ripening cherries, I mutter a pagan prayer and bless the leaves in summer. Wind picks some of the ash and takes it far away.

Peace and the fog come in autumn. Both old friends together they blanket everything in their grasp. I feel as covered and comfortable with them as I do with my jacket and jeans. A freshly born baby in a blanket, cooing to herself. The bath water is warm but still.

Winter earthy frost. Still. Dark. Nights. Fear and truth walk hand in hand in a brothership of equals. The earth comes out of her ancient home and takes a cup to every tree and every animal. Some drink, some don’t. The old green man, her husband takes those who have-not drunk, lights little candle under those who have.

Then a fire is lit in a old grove. It leaves the ash ready for spring.

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