I gathered nine white stones when I went
to the sea, that windy threshold where sky meets
water meets land, and all is transmuted
by the fire of the sun. Nine stones.
One for each of the dogwood trees,
gracious guardians at the entrance
to our own threshold.
One for the toad to grasp
as she sits in contemplation
under the litter of leaves.
One to place
between the clasped hands
of the lovers in their whirling dance.
One to rest at the bee-door
to guide them home from honeying.
One for wildness and courage,
to be the lion’s heart,
the spirit of the wood.
One for the wren
whose story overflows
and trickles over house and fields.
One to place at the cave’s door,
to carry as we walk within.
And one for the falcon
to clutch in her claws,
when she stands in the sky
and sees that singular task
among all that lies in the fields.
1. Insomniac child finally fell asleep again at 4. I counted backward from 100 for him. Need to remember that one.
2. Tannenbaum so lovely and the magic of nostalgia for small children: “I remember this ornament!”
3. Loving cat who licks my ears and tickles my chin.
4. Advent. Waiting for the light. Hush. Stillness.