POETRY FOR SAMHAIN

The poet at Samhain

Samhain is the old Celtic name for All Hallows’ Eve, October 31^st

Dragon of my self-admiration,

the time for roaring is over.

Come with me to winter’s cave.

If you wish, I will whisper, down

the tunnel of your hoary ear,

praise for your lavender

and bottle-green scales, 

the gyrations of your

your whipping tongue --

but you must be still.

Tame your breath, warm the small

wood creatures below the hawthorn;

observe robins courting the holly tree,

eager for red fruit to soften, mature.

Marvel while snowflakes float

and whirl, tumble from invisible 

nets in a cobalt sky.

Listen while children sing

in bright, piping voices.

Watch as the light from

their candles threads, winking,

through the groves at midnight.

All of this will happen without you:

The trees, brown sticks in the snow,

will worship the icy silence.

The branch’s trickling song will persevere

beneath silvery panes.

Emerald mosses, soft and wet,

will cling to granite and quartz, 

spread fingers through

furrows in the damp

bark of the leaning oak

who guards the spring.

Poetry by Cathy Larson Sky from her chapbook Blue egg, my heart (Finishing Line Press, 2014) 
Paintings by the famous Sulamith Wulfing
Photos by Cathy Larson Sky, from the family land in Spruce Pine, NC.

 

FALLing

On the ancient Celtic calendar, tonight is Samhain, when the living and dead join hands and tango. It is the eve of a New Year; the tropical summer with its searing heat is behind us and the introspective, crystalline winter is ahead. It seems I have come round again on the calendar, to a place just above that spiraling DNA of inner growth where I can look down from my perch and see clear through to one year ago, when jubilation over a completed CD veered, all at once, into the territory of grief and loss. No matter how it strikes, I can never dodge the process of grief. It is a flood. It must have its way.

How many times I’ve wandered the path in the woods behind our house this past year. Once it was a retreat, a white land offering pristine beauty. Then it became green and flowered, enchanted and fragrant. Summer brought a surprise: the arrival of a little pup in our lives, a creature to shake me up, drive me crazy – to come along the path with me.


The woodland way is now broad and well-used, with choice canine toileting spots on either side. It’s a friendly place I travel three or four times daily, with Sookie coming up behind, her ears flying, the picture of joy and abandon. When I sit by the spring, my arms and lap are full of wriggling and warm new life. The leaves are gold fairy coins against a blue sky.



So, let them Fall
Like water over the precipice
The old dreams
The ghosts and demons
The scaries and the faeries
Let them Fall --
The leaves, the leftovers
The undigested, the ruined
The perfect, the imperfect
The tears, the joy
The anger, the helplessness.
All of it, all of it.
To happen again and again.