“Sha click, sha click” the sound resonates deep within her, a sound she’s heard before – experienced before – lived before; the wool slides between her fingers, her foot rises and falls on the pedal and the wheel spins.
Their hands joined, they formed a circle around the altar; a fire ablaze in the womb of the cauldron – Her womb, the magickal workings spread before them and they spun – chanting, singing and spinning their web.
Westward bound, Water spun her way clear off the island – into a hospital; a sickness so many now have. She collected her hair and secretly stashed it into a little brown box in the bottom of her closet. She sleeps.
They whirled into the night, the moon hidden behind a storm of clouds, the darkness stood outside their circle cast; Her lit belly lighting their way.
Northern lights guided Earth’s adventure far from their sacred space, as stability abandoned her; her husband faded into the past, her children graduated and moved-on, no place to call home – no place except the land where her herbs grow.
Heat rose and their hands vibrated with the intensity of the energy they created; no longer were they dizzy, their speed increased as they weaved in and out of this world.
Southern flames that once roared fiercely dull themselves to the strength of a barely lit candle as South sits at home, knits, zones and finds glimmers of comfort in the time she has left; her passions fading with her spirit.
An abrupt termination of the spinning, their web was complete, their cone erect and direction required; they released their hands and placed them above the altar – hovering, releasing, energizing. Harm to none, their will was done; their circle was opened.
Eastern breezes carried Air home that night; leaving her to crave the clasping of their hands once more. A delicate tune escapes her now as she travels into the years ahead; she finds herself visiting her dear elemental friends through spirit and feeling the loss of what is to never be again.
“Sha click, Sha scrape” the wool - over spun - pulls apart; she loses her footing on the pedal and the wheel comes to a halt.
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I almost hate to see you leave this for week 10 because it would also fit very nicely in week 11--where words carry extra freight. Of course, I'm an English major, but I don't find this distancing or alienating at all; I'm too old to not have a clue what you're getting at here!
ReplyDeleteAnyway, week 10, week 11, I don't really care. This is a handsome and careful piece, very well wrought, full of poetic prose: poetic prose can be pushy, obnoxious, precious, and overly insistent, but you avoid all of that, so I'm impressed and happy to read it.