poetry

Season of the Witch

Autumn, you return 
like a lover
thought lost to my dreams.
A cool hand on my forehead.

I want to kiss your fingertips,
and wear you like the scarves-
colourful as dead leaves-
that long to warm my neck once more.

I want to wash clean the sins of summer
in your endless rains,
and accept your blessings
of apples, blackberries, sacred mushrooms-
if they Will find me.

In return I’ll make my offerings
of rites and rituals, art and words.
Blood and songs, and all of me besides.

For when I am touched by your cool hand-
even as the leaves go gracefully to their deaths-
I come alive.

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art of trauma
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