Image by Waking Crow
my basket is overflowing
full of spells to weave and timelines to animate
full of Venus pearl’s formed in the long dreams within the shell
full of terrible images from this world that I haven’t yet fully processed or prayed about
full of words that take on new meaning as my sage hairs sparkle in the moonlight
full of ideas I caught from the stream,
many of which I’ll be throwing back
full of offerings to make, medicines to take, and gifts to give
full of dry rose petals from ceremonies that linger somewhere in the dusks of my maiden soul
full of dragon tears I’ve gathered for the naiads
full of broken altar pieces I keep to bury at the ancient tree,
where the roots still sing
of underground rivers and seeds of light and cherishing wonder
full of truths that were left unspoken in the heat of moments we don’t get back
full of visions I glimpsed in my shimmering youth
full of rusty meditation practices from decades of study and rebelliousness
sometimes our baskets are so full
beauty and broken things