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.
Pibroch for Scott
I was wearing my teasing little red shorts,
you were following me through the woods.
I kind of thought you were after me.
So did she, apparently, but you ended up
with her that night instead. So we didn't.
Decades later, I message you at Samhain,
wishing happy new year. I don't text,
you text back, call. But I don't call,
knowing the overwhelming torrent of words
would drown me. So we don't.
Now, if anywhere, you walk the flowering plains
of the Land of Youth, piping among the apple trees.
Maybe some day I'll see you there.
Maybe, that day, we do.
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