Your golden tassels rustle softly
as I lift you from your place,
a gentle sigh as at the end of a busy day
full of rushing and strangeness.
It is time again to lay you down on that soft shrine,
the dust and ash of many offerings
wiped away with water that stirs heart and body
with the quickening scent of spring sap rising.
My Lady walks today, and I, too, quicken,
all aflutter with the clouties tied so hopefully,
my own ashy regrets and distant prayers
washed in her upwelling lifeblood.
You, too, are freshened by that tender touch,
shining newly golden, rich
as the butter melting on our laughing tongues,
nourishing, nourishing.
This is the bread you bring us.
Rooted Flame and a Deep Wellspring 