Poem: The Moon

The moon was made from and for hard times.

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The Moon

The moon was made from and for hard times.

A collision can be a kind of birth. Singing an anthem

of strangeness, they call the tides

a drum. “Wyrd means knowing one.”

I go to the oceans of my life for a word beyond

hope. I go to the moon to remember

that everything is ancestor, this mycelial

magic. The moon reminds me to cast my eyes up–

to put my palms down, a spiral, turning

through space. Oh moon,

remember me as the changes come.

Remember the waxing

and the waning of the years. Do not let me fall

into despair, but rather into an oceanic depth

of heaving existence. The moon waits over

the waters of my life, beckons me in,

I wade out following the pulsing rhythm

of the planet. This is what they meant

when they said initiation,

giving the self over to the liminal

space in between this

and the other shore. Moon, I pass through

this cleaving, I myself am only here for a brief

moment. I kneel at the tidepools of this being

with a prayer of breath, what I have to offer–

may we all commune at this altar of the oldest story,

the one of dying and being born.

To deepen your practice of Word Witchery, build a creative practice through ritual, and write with the magic of the elements, cycles, and the seasons, explore my book Word Witch: How to Call Upon and Cultivate the Creative Magic Within You here.