Leaves in the Mud
Four witches gather under the full moon,
that wonderful woman with craters
in her face and pockets of dark skin patched
together with overwhelming paleness.
She reaches down with a gracious hand,
imbuing a little bit of intent into the flame
that these four witches dance around,
humming a song whose words have long
been forgotten. Warmth radiates from
the fire, a gift from Hestia and Artemis,
a divine hearth baked in moonlight,
casting shadows in the trees so they dance
too. All move in hidden celebration
of Samhain, tucked away from judging
eyes. A tradition just for themselves.
So they circle the fire with mud-soaked
feet, toes turning on crunchy leaves.
Their discarded shoes lay far
from the fire, sleeping at the edge
of the clearing. Bare feet only here,
for it connects you closer to the mother.
Get leaves between your toes and mud
under your nails. Bask in the warmth
of this ritual fire and hum under
your breath, the same breath that fogs
in the air. Bitter cold may bite through
your thin dress, but you won’t mind
because the fire keeps spirits warm.
Though be careful not to get so joyous
that your voice raises higher than a hum
for the townsfolk might hear, a whisper
that wakes them from sleep to wonder
what goes on in the woods, where
witches dance and deities come
to watch (but only to ever watch).
Might they wonder if the hunt
is good on a night like tonight.
Might they wonder if godless
sinners have crept from the closet
to celebrate bravely on a night like
tonight. Might they gather
their rope and roast up a witch
on a night like tonight.