She stands barefoot in the storm,
hoping tomorrow, when the spirits
settle, her daughter’s fever will
break. The willow tree is greening
in the front yard as she hums
to the rhythm of bees. Her
runes tell her: thorn, hail. She
waits it out, brewing teas of
rosehip and chamomile, soothing
warm skin with feverfew.
In dreamtime, she is a wise
wolf, burying bones among
crests of pine, knowing
her task is to remember.
In the morning, she sings mud
into medicine, tells her daughter
stories of old women with bodies
like the Moon, all them brighter
after resting in the Earth’s shadow.
2 notes ()