Have you ever read a book that hit so many of the right notes in the right spots that you thought, surely the author has read my mind?
For Rhyd
At first, I was angry because you made me cry:
weeping over how much I had forgotten.
But then I let the rain stop falling
so I could be glad again:
Better to forget a little while
(and how very much, for us,
is just a little for Them!)
and then remember again,
rather than forgetting forever.
I am buried in the depth of winter,
wearing a shroud I did not die in,
a chrysalis that will soon burst open,
releasing me to life and memory again,
and for this gift, I am grateful.
I will drink tea and speak with you
as if you are there, laugh as I hike
through the woods,
and leave gifts for the spirits and Cernunnos,
Artemis and Flidais,
and read your words again and again,
until the pages are warped and dog-eared,
highlighted, old:
I will celebrate the fire in you
with fire at Beltane,
races at Lughnasadh,
oatcakes and cream at midnight on Samhain.
And the only thing I ask of you is this:
Keep writing.
I know you, don’t I? From somewhere, or some when?
Read this book.
All Their Voices 