For Pagans who are Mainers in fact or in spirit.
poem for the season, and the waiting silence in me
Samhain Song
It is an old story, the oldest story:
the lesson of death, the etch of change, the vital
return, so different and yet
so very much the same. This is the story
of life written in the language of fear.
This is the story of living.
The dry scritch of leaves travelling
from sidewalk to grave
is an ancient song, a modern
interpretation on a prehistoric theme. This bone-chill
is the same touch of winter that my great-
grandmothers felt year after year.
It recurs for me.
This is the season
of turning inward, of listening for the inner stillness
and the chill.
The death is a connecting thread. My parents felt this;
my children will too.
This is a story so essential
it is written on water, on rock,
on bone and blood,
on mother, on child.
It is an old story, the oldest story:
the lesson of death, the etch of change, the vital
return, so different and yet
so very much the same. This is the story
of life written in the language of fear.
This is the story of living.
The dry scritch of leaves travelling
from sidewalk to grave
is an ancient song, a modern
interpretation on a prehistoric theme. This bone-chill
is the same touch of winter that my great-
grandmothers felt year after year.
It recurs for me.
This is the season
of turning inward, of listening for the inner stillness
and the chill.
The death is a connecting thread. My parents felt this;
my children will too.
This is a story so essential
it is written on water, on rock,
on bone and blood,
on mother, on child.
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