Open As Flowers

Open As Flowers

I was not expecting to tread the deep moss this morning. I was not expecting you sound of water dripping on rock. I was not expecting to be reminded that I know who I am. I know who I am. 

As open as flowers.

A very long time ago my "sister" had a poetry project (something she sucks at) and she had to write a poem from the words,

"There's a dark, dark wood inside my head.."

It became a "family" project and a by phrase but it stuck with me. It lost all meaning and when was free from the constrains of what words came after. I have no fear of the dark, dark wood, inside my head or otherwise. For trees know me and we sing in silence, but not silence to each other. 

If I had never spent a day with shoes on, if I had lived under my Holy holy tree with only my fire to warm me, that essence, this me would still be me.

What beautiful gifts She sends me. Always what I need, when I need it. Always my strife comes from other people's ideas of me having to fit in a small square box and when I don't they get angry with me.

I will wear those blindfolds on my feet. I won't climb into those strong growing arms any more that reach, reach towards the light rooted in crow, in the dead and dirt but only because I need only brush their cheek with my fingertips and speak. To listen.

I had such sensible plans today, about those who choose to stay in the Broom Closet or do the Don't Ask/Don't Tell stance on who they are. How oddly most of my students had fallen into that category and how I had slipped into the Don't Ask/Don't Tell mode myself for a while.

Yet the poetry is calling me. I have to sew today (someone wants a Goddess) and that seems right. Sat by the fire, praying and stitching, mixing herbs, the magick in my body and voice. I am glad of the rain, it's drumming woke me.

The trees are beginning to blush with spring.

The rising sap and the old birds sing.

The streams and rivers, full and fast.

Clearing the fallen, from winter's past.

The Birch is shedding it papery skin.

Forest maiden quiet, naked and thin.

Sleek and quick the ivy grows around

The Oak and Ash without any sound.

Sleep is shaken from slender fingers

In slumbering hollows dreams mist lingers.

The Yew grove flicker's in anticipation.

The winter's silences springs into conversation.

The taste of thunder is in the air.

Broken with sunny spells, here, and there.

The Whispering of the the Wild Wet Wood.

Lost, and forgotten, not yet understood.

 It is an old poem, one I had to dig to find in my Book of Shadows. Yet today it speaks to me.

Bright Blessings  xxx