There is no snow on the ground,

Yet snow is promised
Eventually.
It always comes
and this year the path through will be different,
this year the way to the real front door is clear and open and I very much hope that we will use that path, make a clear, shoveled way to the door over cobbled path.

That leaves the glass doors just for the family and the woods, you see, and the path therefrom will not lead to the mundane, polluting, everyday cars.
No.
That way will be blocked, says I,
By all the beautiful snow in the world.

What I want is for the glass, south-facing, sun-loving inner doors to lead to a magical place of sledding and dog-running and sparkle and wonder. I want for these doors to lead to Faerie.

So I’m walking the new path now,
making it ready

For the snow

Breathing, barely,

and pulsing and aching and striving and turning and being present to others because that proves that I exist and waiting so patiently behind my mask which is covered with flowers and vines and fruit so that it is no mask at all.

Breathing, barely, but I know that that is “sunshine” and this is “soft dog” and somehow I still have hope because I have tried the alternative and I’m done with that nonsense.

Samhain, 2020

He was standing there waiting for me, revealed by moonlight,
and then all the others came,
the ghosts and the gods,
so I could give thanks
and refrain from making promises
and give more thanks.

Stag and Thunder;
Moon and Earth;
Wolf and Bear;
Owl and Coyote;
Jupiter, Saturn, and Mars;
Cygnus, Aquila, and Lyra;
Fire and Dance;
Mother and Father.

Now it is morning:
Moon and Earth still here,
Orion has his two good dogs and I have mine,
and we all have a Silmaril in the Eastern sky.
Oh, and the coyotes are still singing.

Finally we turn back.
Hearth and Home
and sleeping family.

All will be well,
And all will be well,
And all manner of things will be well.

~

That last stanza is, of course, written by Saint Julian of Norwich. Blessed Samhain and all the new year ahead to you and yours.