The mulberries are now bare
while the oaks are still cloaked
in shades of yellow, orange, 
and brown,
maples and dogwoods
still clad in scraps of red.
Puffs of woodsmoke
catch the morning light
and hang like mist
in the cedars,
my breath too,
a fine cloud
trailing away into the trees.
There is something in the air
that speaks of satisfaction,
of change,
of cycles complete and renewing.
There is an invitation
to pause and witness
and to mindfully choose
next steps and new directions.
Our lives can hold
what we want them to hold.
Be present,
stay open,
attend to what is.
Be in the world,
in your life.
Return to center
again and again.
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Blog posts tagged in woodspriestess
Sometimes you may feel dull
and worn,
...
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Molly, Thanks for sharing! It succeeds both as poetry and self-help literature. The imagery is beautiful and worth pondering. -
Thank you! Glad you liked it!
It is April and Earth’s Mystery School
is in session.
The dogwoods are preparing
to hold council,
draped in white
as they line the corridors
of discovery.
Chickweed has already been
holding a party in the front yard,
scattering the grass with stars.
The violets are keeping company
with dandelion,
trading tips on how to best enjoy the sun,
while waiting for bees
to waltz over from the plums.
Speaking of plums,
they’ve got a lot to say,
bursting with enthusiasm
and excitement to share
all they’ve brought to offer
and arraying their teachings
before you with a delicately irrepressible
and intoxicating air.
Dialogues with daisies will be
beginning just down the way
and there is much to learn
from elderberry
as it stretches tall
and prepares for an audience
capable of patience and possibility.
Lillies and iris are considering
options for collaboration
and preparing a display,
but they will be waiting a bit longer
for just the right moment to speak.
Hyacinth is feeling shy,
but has a small class to offer
on tapping into delight
and touching deep secrets
and long memories.
It is a fine time to divine with witchhazel
along the way
and choose recipes with maple 
and morel,
time to talk tea and tinctures
with toothwort and trillium
and to learn sweet secrets from
redbud and lilac.
Raspberry and blackberry
are getting ready for a team effort,
teaching about the sweetness of boundaries and about
holding space.
Rose will be a guest lecturer
as she knows a lot about balancing
bounteous blooming
with assertive limits.
Wild cherry has been wondering
what to share
and soon she’ll spread her
graceful arms
to welcome you when summer school begins.
Leave behind your computer,
you won’t need it.
Lessons are free and open 24 hours,
broadcast live even from
sidewalk cracks and roadsides
and vacant lots.
You’re welcome to study
as long as you like
as long as you’re open
to the schedule
of what is now.
I carried lemon balm
and sweet almond oil with me
into the woods
and sat on a stone. 
I saw three vultures rising and falling
wheeling and whirling
gracefully above the valley
and a single black crow zip busily
along the horizon
as its kin called raucously
from unseen trees.
A neat triangle of nine geese
passed above my head,
close enough for a change
to hear the rhythmic sounds
of their wings moving the air
as they passed me by.
I encircled myself with lemon balm,
scattering it loosely
on the leaves around my rock.
I anointed my body with sweet drops
of scented oil
and whispered some wishes to the wind.
These, my own spontaneous
and solitary
rites of spring.
Suddenly, the slowly coasting vultures
changed course
and angled across the blue sky above me.
I felt the shadows of their long wings
gently cross me
as I sat silent in my circle
and felt tears rise into my eyes
and laughter rise to my lips
at the exact same moment
as I recognized the feeling
of Persephone’s return.
Note: originally published at Feminism and Religion.
This morning,
I walked around the field
and discovered
three soft white breast feathers
of an unknown bird,
two earthstar mushrooms,
sinking quietly back into the soil,
one tiny snail shell,
curled in spiral perfection,
and the fire of my own spirit
burning in my belly,
rekindled by elemental magic
of the everyday kind,
the small and precious gifts
of an ordinary day.
In my dream,
the Summer Queen
is wrapped in summer’s fire,
garbed in gowns of gold and brown,
and blazing with desire,
the grass and grains
are winding down,
leaning in ebbing spires.
She feels the heat beneath her feet,
her stride is wide,
her lips are sweet,
her arms lift up to lightning streaks.
She twirls around on thirsty ground
raising the passions higher.
With hips and hopes expanding wide
her heart alight with joy and pride
her song is strong,
her howls are long,
her many prayers are hot and bold
and then her plans
find ease at last
remembering the wheel spins fast
it’s nearly time to share the floor,
as Autumn’s Queen
peeks round
the door.
In August, I feel held in a space between summer’s fire and summer’s fatigue. There has been a blooming and a ripening, and now a harvesting and a fading begin as the time comes to turn the page.
The Perfect Beltane
The cool touch of dew
across cheeks and brow,
a single pink dianthus emerging
between stones,
sunlight kisses through leafy canopies,
a circle of flower petals,
a gentle hoop of wild raspberry cane
making a celebration arch
under which to sit
on a broad flat stone,
gooseberry bushes by my knees
and the sound of wild turkeys
rising from the valley,
as the sun lifts steadily
into the sky.
It is this small magic
of living I crave
and delight in,
the silent ceremonies
of surprise and skin
that arise before my eyes
and sink into my bones,
the very day itself
the ritual handbook
of a wild witch alone.
