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.
Spring Dreams
All summer long the little clay goddess has stood in the good, brown earth of the garden.
All summer long she has watched over the waxing of the crops.
Now, standing in a bowl of seed wheat, she presides over the Harvest Supper.
(On Midwinter's Eve we will eat this self-same wheat, made sweet with honey, rich with almonds and poppy seed, perfumed with rose water, from this very bowl.)
And when the last bite has been taken, the last toast poured, she will go to her bed in the storage cupboards, with the fruits of summer all around her.
There, wrapped in white, she will sleep all winter.
Sleep, and dream of spring.
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