Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
Crown of Light
The crown of candles sits on the table by the door. I see it every time that I come into the house.
On Bridey's Eve, it graced a sacred head. The tall white candles bathed her in warm light, the leaves of its wreath crisply green against the white of her veil.
That was thirteen nights gone. Now the brittle leaves crumble as I unwrap the gold ribbon that holds them to the crown. The ribbon goes back onto its spool; the leaves I will strew in the snowy garden, to nourish another harvest.
The candles, half-burned, go into the chandelier in the temple, where they will light our next rite.
The crown, denuded, returns to its peg in temple storage, to await the coming of another February.
More than 300 years ago, Robert Herrick wrote in his poem "Candlemas Eve":
Thus times do shift, thus times do shift:
each thing his turn doth hold.
New things succeed, new things succeed,
as former things grow old.
Spring is coming. The Wheel turns.
Above: Sulamith Wülfing, Crown of Light
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Beautiful, Steven, as always. Linking on FB.