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.
Pact
What do you want, he asked me,
sixteen and in love, that night
in the woods, and I answered:
You, for heart and center, all my days.
(Not wealth, nor fame, nor happiness.)
He sighed and shook his head,
tines tipped with firelight.
Not the world's best career move,
he told me tenderly, cupping
the back of my head in his hand:
a loving father ruing his willful son's
bad decision. But if you will
have it so, I promise you
this: enough. You will always
have enough. And so I have.
In this faith, I have lived my life.
(Never has he lied to me, never.)
So it has been, these fifty years
and more, and so it shall be,
I trust, to the end of my days.
It is enough.
To Isobel Gowdie, he gave
that she should eat every day
as if it were Yule: abundance.
Mine is both the lesser
and the greater gift. Enough
to know faith kept, the truth
of his word. I rest content.
© Steven W. Posch 2022
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