Poetry: Waking the Witch – a Birthday Poem

I turned 49 this month. And it is just a number – the 7th cycle of 7 years in which our cells are all have supposed to renewed themselves.  If you take the chronological count of years out of the equation, then we are never truly old or young. We are all every age at the same time.  We are a beautiful culmination of cells, thought, energy, intention, memories and dreams. We carry every possibility of our future within us already. We are walking bits of mythos, we are ever-changing pieces of the divine having a human experience.
No black balloons.  No slide into decline. No regrets. Whatever lines hatch across my face, I’ve earned them.  They are earmarks of care and emotion and connection. I see the world with more love now, more patience, more wisdom. Whatever girl I was before, she did not have the benefit of my experience. Whatever woman I will be, she will remember this autumn with her loved ones as part of a rich and grateful life.
Waking the Witch
 
The thread of her life was longer than anyone’s remembering
And stronger than anyone’s perception
 
The balance of her lifetime never tipped any closer to meeting Death
Because she always arose anew from scattered ash
 
Among all the pretty
delicate daisies and innocent lilies,
She was the pagan oak, sacred and eternal
 
Her body feeding its own flaming heart in bitter January
Consuming Hungry Lovers in February
Drunk with Grey Rains in March
Giving forth life and leaf green in April
 
The thread of her life spun out colors of divine spectrum
And words and music beyond anyone’s covetous stares
The balance of her days defied Time and Reason
Because she knew and accepted the gifts they gave
 
Among all the breakable, diamond-like mirrors,
She was not a reflection, but the light itself
Her sacrificial heart, lambent flesh offered up in festival May
 
Illuminated and fevered in June
Riding the full blazing moon of July
Dozing by her exhausted beloveds in August fields
 
The thread of her life was tensile and giving beyond anyone’s reckoning
And she loved the light and fire she saw in each divine body
The balance of her life burned away fear and left others in dust
Because she was the dream of sex and immediacy and need and all loves at once
 
Her wounded, translucent hands carrying the grail of September dawn
Holding bright, orange hope through Fearsome October
Offering up unbound, limitless passion for Grey November
Flooding light from her heart upon December’s white wasteland
 
The thread of her life was beautifully, terribly longer than anyone’s remembering
And stronger than anyone’s perception

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