With last harvest gathered in the veil between worlds,
gossamer thin, hangs between us,
a spiders silk drifting in a silvery breeze as
we wait for the unseen to visit.

They shift in the shadows,
restless for the tide to turn,
and push the wheel it carries them,
in fading form on a pilgrimage,
and as candles burn the path is strewn with pomegranate tears.
We hear them, drawing near.

The old year lifts with its mournful sigh
In a seeping mist, taking doubt and loss to a velvet-black sky,
that soothes and shimmers and on butterfly wings,
guides us forward through mulch and pine.

We embrace our journey
into the dark
resting in stillness
wrapped in arms of warm soil
and writing a lilting song.
We spiral inside, dreaming of new things to come.
And as leaves lay a carpet of skeleton memories, they're charged by the magic, transformed in a dance of grace
And we are like snakes shedding old skin.