future perfect
like untracked snow
the pages wait
the days aligned
in black and white
boxed like small gifts
the leisurely rounds of
full moons and crescents
turns of
equinox and solstice
weave through
the weft of the months and seasons
we are past dancing
at the turning of the earth
past burning junipers
into holy incense
past bearing shaking sacrifices
to the altar
our eyes lifted toward the moon
still the primal rite
owns my heart
bereft of wand or chalice
for the risky passage
bare under the guardian stars
I clutch my private totems
I pause on the brink
the sacred pages whispering
through my fingers
like the breath
before the curtain rises
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