by Janine Phillips
The Cailleach whispers in the early dawn,
before the Sun God begins to yawn.
The horizon, she rises
with a sleep-filled hush,
as we slip from our beds,
minds filled with dream fluff.
While we steep our morning brews,
as autumn frost melts to autumn dew,
we stoke the fires to heat the morn
and to warm our souls
where magic is born.
We pull our cards to frame the day,
wanting to know what comes our way.
With cups and pentacles, wands and swords
we weave our stories by needle and word.
The fragile hairs you spun to wool
now twist and cling from your draft and pull,
curving like roads that lead you along
while you knit and pearl the Spinner’s song.
Miles further from your norm,
my coffee steeps and computer hums.
My finger tapping fills the screen,
painting pictures with words the Spider weaves.
The harmony that we create
from soul to fingertips to fate,
in the wee hours it binds our breaths
through webs entwined from east to west.
Janina Grey 