Samhain approaches, the veil thins.
The moon beckons me closer to her while the harvest begins to yield bounty.
Wheat and corn husks rippling in the breeze, apples and pumpkins; as bright as any Christmas ornament catch my eye as I pass their fields.
I love the look of hay bales, mums and gourds.
I long to have my family around me at Thanksgiving and
joyfully press onward to 2019.
But first, we stand still.
We inhale the fog, the rain, the left over remains of October.
I stand, singularly as a tree and continue to send my roots southward.
My intuition is high, my fingertips tingling with something I can hardly name and smile remembering: before we trim the turkey and the tree and sing Christmas carols or wrap gifts we must first pay homage to the dead.
We must first shake off the summers glow and the heat of July peaches. The sand and salt of the beach, the ice cream running down your arm. And we must speak to those beyond this place, and catch things out of the corner of our eyes, and hear our name in an empty house.
Steady, steady, there is goodness is saying goodbye to it all. And such wealth in visiting the memories this time of year.
When the fog is thickening and the leaves shiver on branches and the crisp night air is filled with the beginnings of wood fire smoke.
It is unseasonably seasonal in these days to be a witch.
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