Ascending

Upon ascending, our winter’s dirge can be heard from miles away. So much ash and bone scattered in the just barely warmer winds gifted by the Maiden. We wash our feet in the still cold creek and shake the dirt from our hair; our hands still stained with the sweet blood of pomegranate and loss. The sun kisses our necks as we meander in all directions, guided only by a heart’s desire and the smell of salt water and lilac in the air. What we have shed leaves fresh skin, so ready to be licked by the fire and soaked in rain filled fields. Our souls are new and wild, our memories trailing behind like wayward companions within our story. We write the world again as we dance. We bless our spirits whole when we smile at the way the deer make nests for the young. We gather the lost and listen to their sorrow. We prepare for the beautiful chaos of spring and talk of honey cakes and wine in summer. We ride our horses fast and whisper words to them in an ancient language that no one knows. We realize that now we are wise and we wonder how exactly this happened. For that is the magic of the season. To be made, over and over. To feel like green grass and apple blossoms, like fledgling souls shaking off stardust. “Remember the Maiden” the trees whisper. Because even the wise women need such audacious zest for this life.

Photo by Burak The Weekender on Pexels.com