SAMHAIN 2004
Alone with my sharp blade,
I pare, with painful precision,
My mistakes,
dashed hopes,
over-ambitious plans,
fruitless dreams,
decaying growth,
The dead weight of unwanted possessions,
and of disappointment,
Each cut allowing precious, sacred space,
The cold, dark loam of winter in which to wait,
Coiled and still in dreamless sleep,
for the next, inevitable shift...
Heather Shackleton ©
Samhain 2004
