First nightfall draws first blood.
A New Year is nothing new to her, but the poetry in this
is too obvious to pass by.
So she draws this line.
In the sand, in the water, in the dark.
Like notes on a far away wind she comes whispering secrets,
speaking clearly but only loud enough that I can hear.
The first cut belongs to me this time around the sun.
She leaves a mark that I am meant to heal myself.
Out in the dwindling darkness the crops that wait tilled remain un-seeded.
All of the water runs red and nothing grows with this moon's light.
Trace the lengthening shadows, hold the blade and carve the secrets from the stone.
The ritual plays out, but not for naught.
Alchemy is a woman's art.
© Elizabeth McLaughlin