Honor

Honor the ancestors.

They are the golden honey
that streams through this moment.

Honor the dead and the unborn,

for none are dead, none are unborn.

Sacred is the womb, 

sacred is the grave.

I sing to you, Mother.

As a wild iris bending 

toward dawn,

you bend toward the dark.

I sing to you, Father.

Let your withered beams return

to the hollow seed.

Each step I take on earth

makes this a sacred day,
a sacred day.

The soles of my feet
pay obeisance to you
who traveled before me.

But you left no trail.

Each footprint was a thistle furrow,

A bowl of raindrops and chanterelles.

No room for a Way.

So I wend off-trail

entangling the seasons

of Samhain and Imbolc.

I touch the moon

through my own eyes,

my own breath.

I feel you, grandfather, walking

in my footsteps.

Aboriginal art by Peter Mulchahy