Raven

she spent the night shapeshifting
             
                      her form: wafting:  shimmering: undulating

from human, to animal, to bird, to leaf, to human

              smells were sharper, the cold night clearer, hands and paws,
                                   a flicker, a moment of flight

she awoke the next day beneath a large ash tree
fur, claws and leather her bedmates

overhead, the raven's sound
and the image of him
all in black, mask and beak

the apothecary shop

it was tucked away in the quiet backstreets of the old city
an apothecary shop, vibrant dried plants in clear glass bottles
books of spells and healing, culpeper's herbal, cobalt bottles and tinctures
old parchments, a wizened shop keeper, clay figurines
smells of leather and leaf, beeswax and flame

in the front window, a large astrological dial
she paused at the door, her heart loud
she could feel it rising up, a remembering

a something stronger than a dream
that she was moving toward,
her hand on the brass door knob
and the waft of opening, inside, as she entered

into dust

while stroking braille-like, the veins, tendons and flesh 

of my hand, in her hand

she says:

"one day...these bones will be dust..."

Underground

some say she has gone underground
      has lived below, in dark caves, in the moist underbelly
her heart beating            all these years

waiting
waiting for us                 to remember
                     our own wombs
       blood rich and fertile
                          she is the sound of dripping water
                           she is the sound of mo(u)rning
we breathe her in, her amniotic voice                    
               our own bodies swell
                     where we know her   where
                                                                  we   know        her


       

Empress of the Dark Forest

Dear Francie,

we spent the day in the aspen grove yesterday. it was a cold, windy but clear morning.  the road into the grove was especially hard to navigate, filled with large boulders and almost un-navigatable, with drops and ruts. but i made it.

there were about 25 of us. we gathered together in a circle and laid on the earth, covered in blankets and down.  the wind blew over us in great exhaling out-breaths.

it was marvelous and... i felt tired...winter has arrived there.  the trees are bare, a few with a whisper of leaves, but mainly bare, the land has that quiet 'tucked away' feeling, as if everything has newly gone to sleep. humans are more scarce now, at this time of the year, and everything can rest.

someone saw a bear and in the distance, all day, the sounds of hunters.

we sang.  told stories of bear and bear's plant knowing, around the fire. and then it was time to dig.

we took our time entering the sacred part of the land.  it wasn't the oldest part, but close to it. the air felt different in that particular grove. like rain and fertile earth. i played my frame drum with my spine pressed against an aspen tree. someone played a flute. we all paused.

the wool woman and i ended up under two pines, with large spreading branches. we sang and rattled, and offered chocolate and cornmeal. we put our bellies on the earth and dug with fingers and antler bones. washi was a shy root, mysterious and potent. i prayed for healing, my voice intertwined in earth and pine and root.

we took our time. as the dry earth gave way to her pungent smell.  we breathed her in. me in gasping breath-fulls. we worked our fingers in and around her crevices. followed her long limbs into the earth in different directions.  we ate her. came up covered in dirt. fingernails caked full.

then it was time to make the root into medicine. we told more stories, helped each other, worked the root into jars of local honey with dirt smeared hands.  many of us simply rested and ate.

i've made you some honey. we missed you in the grove and quiet song. 

dearly,

L.

Grimoire

    she found the grimoire, pages torn, strewn into the willow grass

above her, the bright dome of a sky 
heavy with autumn's breath
her fingers touched pages, delicately, then full palmed, 
a stroking
            a pressing
                            a press
a rising up
                  of earth secret

Portals

she awoke after dreaming that night

of a man she had never met

the soft skin of her bones

and his/a heart/flailing beard and vines

she wondered if it could be a visit from the green man

a man of mythologies and mystery

a  man waking her into some unpronounceable future

or perhaps 

it was a numinous woodwose

beckoning her into the deepest parts of autumn

the deepest parts of her body

into her own wild season

either way, the wind became chilled,  a mountain's out-breath

she could see doorways, portals, between the trees

inviting nooks, and small branch huts

she could sense the animals 

she could smell the warmth of their pelts as they gathered in

she wandered, but not long

as she no longer felt directionless

her toes in the clean, warm earth