Meeting the Mage

Into the Woods

Sometimes you can’t see the trees for the forest.
You miss the sweep of oak, the broad arms of maple,
the proud rise of locust and poplar and pine,
because the understory closes in around you.
The briars catch and grab, the poison twists
and wanders everywhere into your pathway.

Sometimes you miss the healing tang of rose hips
there in the green tangle before you
because you’re fretting about the thorns,
licking the blood from torn and tattered fingers.
You miss the berries swelling in the brambles
as you reach to free yourself from their grasp.

But some days, when the path is muddy
and you’ve slipped for the thousandth time
back down the slippery hill trail,
your eyes will catch the bright blue
of a feather in wet leaves,
or the sparkle of a shining stone
there where your hand has reached
to push you back to your feet.

Little Red had her Wolf, Snow White had her Dwarfs, and Goldilocks had her family of Bears. When the Fool enters the Wood, the first person she encounters is the Magician (the Mage, the Shaman, the Adept, the Witch). This is someone with a great deal of skill in the manipulation of the elements, someone who can make you see what you think you want to see, a creator of illusion. The Fool encounters Magic in tomorrow’s poem. My poem will be about Magic or the Magician, or the Elements, or changing consciousness at will. Will you join me?

Gratitude List:
1. Getting it done. Plugging. Deciding what I can do and can’t do, and making it work.
2. The haven of my parents’ house for grading in silence, distraction-free.
3. Music and words. Reflection and contemplation.
4. Black-out poetry–my sixth-grader is doing some for homework, and it’s lovely.
5. All the elements.

May we walk in Beauty!

One thought on “Meeting the Mage

  1. The Mage Burns Sage for the Foreseeable Future

    There was the word. The word held fast.
    When you held slow, held strong, held this—
    It was a word and words evoke the past.

    Rearranging matter, mind and mass
    will take your legends leading you to myth
    and give you words; the words hold fast.

    Regret reminds us what will still not last,
    sleeps painfully in comfort made of mist.
    They were strong words evoking fragile pasts.

    The ship will sink; the bow won’t hold the mast.
    That wave descends the hand beyond the wrist
    until the word. The word holds fast.

    This world may seem a mystery to grasp
    But hidden in her language, earth insists
    she names the words evoking what will pass

    into another flame, another rain, another circle cast
    into the sky, another shame, another name, another bliss.
    There is the word. The word holds fast.
    It is a word and words evoke the past.


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