| Oaken Ash Oaken ash and fallen snow, footprints follow to the glow, a fire ablaze in darkest glade upon a winters evening; "O Father Tree, I come to you," I said and then with embers drew a sigil made upon my blade left tempered long, annealing. "O Lady lend your hand," I cried, ere thrice the embers might have died, "I would steal the life from Deaths' own bride to heal your frost diminished pride. I feel your pounding deep inside that issues forth in fragrant wine, I beg your first and fertile sign, your fist and fertile sign. The world is glass and glistens as the ice has cast a chrysalis, and with an edge of cold my breath enfolds my words in misty shroud; From mighty Oaks, whose wood is hard and burns to call the ancient guard, my palette whole, I breath the soul; by smoke I am endowed. "O Lady lift this veil from me. That, stripped of my mortality, with eyes anew I'd sudden see that I am in your grace to be. And cut of earthly like and sheaf I am to heavens' dew received. O let my winged heart be freed, my winged heart be freed". written in 1987 |