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.
Yet you leave no trail.
Each footprint a thistle furrow,
a bowl of chanterelles and raindrops,
no room for a Way.
That is why I wend off-trail
entangling the seasons
of Samhain and Imbolc.
I touch the moon through
my own eyes, my own breath.
And I feel you, grandfather,
walking in my footsteps.
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