A mole on a rocky hill is out of his depth. Like an empty glove pines for the hand. Or a key away from its hole, kept dangling on a chain, longing to mesh. The hole is the key, to a key! The door is irrelevant.
The crone’s door is open Night and Day The crone’s heart is open All the way Oak tree legs and mossy hair Fat soft arms that hug with care She dances deep within the night She sings and conjures till the light Silver charms upon her weeping tree Roots and tinctures all for thee The […]