Solstice Eve

The silver crescent sinks in the west
at the dark margin of shortest day.
Bring the cauldron,
the salts of earth, the spirits of fire, water.
Cast the spark. Now tear the strips,
twist the paper,
wind the wound in knots, tight.
Bind it.
The hushing shadows crowd round.
Speak the story, say the names.
Shout the ink,
and on the breath, let it go.
Burn it in the hexing flames.
Chant and recant.
In the smoke tears sing
and are quiet.
Make a bed of ashes, stir and scry.
Now, unwind.
In the fertile embers, a flicker quickens.
The pale stars listen
to what was silence.
In this mothering dark
an original voice murmurs
and shines.