Lus: a flame, an herb

Come then. Your hands lace
around the chipped cup
framing your eyes with
rising steam. The knots
and veins of them thread
a landscape — mountains,
valleys, broad rivers.

Age hones you into
the image of Earth.

At your back, the snow
catches sound like mice
on a cat’s paw. Turn
instead to the fire.

Let it delight your
eye, let it spark a
story as it heats
the tea, as it draws
us to the corners
of the hearth. A breath
and again. Begin
with prayers to cattle
and to men. Come then,
you chant, let me tell
you of times spun of
mist and shit and earth.

Let me tell you of
the herb you hold in
your cup. Let me tell
you, the singing harp
the strings unstruck, of
the hiss of fat from
the cooking fish that
turns boy into bard.

It starts with a hearth,
with a cup of tea,
with age in your hands
and fire in your eye,
a hearkening ear,
and a crackling tongue.

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About whitecatgrove

The musings of a Druid priestess, singer, poet and musician in Upstate New York.
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