Come November On the mountaintop, the windof Samhain whispersyour name and yoursmy belovedswho slipped through the veilbefore meruffling my hair.Oak and hickory—silent, steady angelswhose limbs direct meeverywhere andnowhere—form a curtainof gold that shifts, invites,while green lichen inches its steady wayover mottled limestone boulderssilent and rooted for millennia.I wait. I listenfor Ancient Wisdomfor what I mustContinueContinue reading “A Poem for Samhain”
