mabon

this year's harvest is a delicate thing;

grown from shafts of sunlight and sharp instinct,

and gossamer webs, and buds and leaves

and berries, and feathers, silvery strewn,

and hope, hesitant and hard hewn.

tempered by a summer's moons,

I am carefully salting it away in my bones and

I am neatly folding it to stow under stones.

I am hanging herbs and binding my home;

I am filling my lungs for the months to come

© Teresa Durran 200922