All Their Voices

Words and thoughts in devotion to the Divine


Book Review: Your Face is a Forest, by Rhyd Wildermuth

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?


Your Face Is A Forest


Read this book.