faery gold

we all go into the forest of life to seek our deaths

some days we drown in flowers,

surfeit on sugared shingles.

arrayed in barbed jewels we stab our own hearts

for something red to drink

we scrabble with broken nails in the dirt,

digging for our souls

or planting magic beans

hiding our treasures for others to find,

these are the exile's choices.

life pays us in kind with faery gold,

we are left with pockets full of leaves.

we go girdled in longing that chokes,

and sit spinning bloodied straw

clawed up from the floor

of this place we call living,

both torture chamber and birthing room.

the difference is merely

what comes out of it---

death or life, both pain-borne---

the difference is how we exit:

clutching softness or spite.

i want to go with my hands full of light

i want to be emptied of all but love.

vardlokkur

amongst the meadows, a forest

in the forest, a clearing

in the clearing, a fence of thorns

inside the fence, a circle of stones

a man there, drumming

a woman there, drumming

a younger woman, singing

an older woman, whispering, rocking

their shadows bend and waver 

making lines of darkness over the grass

dancing with their movements

shifting with the light and cloud-shade

the old woman sees life-lines

like runes etched in sand

taken by the tide

each wave claiming a little more clarity

if the song is rightly sung

if the drumming follows her heart

she may read something there

something precious and true

whirling sun and changeful moon

a tree big enough to hold the world

a sea that birthed all life

transgressions, redemptions

time itself unspools before her 

an evil smoke on the horizon

a rainbow reflected in a pool

which is future, which is past

how to choose the strands

how to read the web

all spins, all flares and wanes

and then, she knows

she reads the people's doom

warp, weft, and woof

from the fate-lines dimming now

vanishing into the air