Poem Thirty-One

 

The Witching Hour

 

I can feel it in my bones as the hour draws near.

That time when worlds collide, when planes of

existence begin to blend together, creating rifts

and tears where none should exist. A weight begins

to settle in my stomach, a feeling of warmth that

spreads through my body – I must prepare.

 

I lay my tools on the alter in front of me: a bowl

of water, a dish of soil, a lit candle, smoking

incense, and a gleaming silver athame. Feeling

confident that all is as it should be, I settle back

on my heels and close my eyes, taking deep

purifying breaths for several minutes. As the

clock chimes three, my eyes snap open.

The witching hour is upon me.

 

The ritual is a familiar routine, bless the space,

invoke the elements, thank the ancestors. I feel

grounded as I commune with the spirits that guide

me. As my time in the circle draws to a close,

I once again show my gratitude for all the help

I have received over the previous year and ask

for guidance and protection in the year to come.

 

I place my sacred supplies back in their

designated homes and make my way to

the comfortable bed that is now beckoning

my weary body. Laying my head down on

my soft pillow, I drift off to sleep with happiness

in my heart and a clean slate for the new year.

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