First Snow
But would you have it any other way?
Would you have it any other way?
The Old Woman walks again tonight. She’s shaking out her sheets for the long winter stay, and the snow flies. Her hammer has already been out for a while now, as more and more mornings as I leave the house for college there is a sheen of frost covering everything from my car to the leaves on the trees. In fact almost two weeks ago I awoke to the thickest fog I’d seen in years, saw an injured crow hobble across the road remind me of the inconvenient truth of death and the impending Festival of the Dead on my drive home, piles of feathers gathered on the ground from some un-named bird who had probably been attacked either during the night before or during the day outside of my nation’s building, and felt the stirrings in my heart of a mad God with horns and a cup full of of blood wine.
Snow falls in thick clumps, wet and melting as it hits the roads but clings to the trees like a delicate cloth, something weaved by winter fairies beckoning their Queen home. And as one wicked witch put it, breaking the chains of the Summer months’ servitude.
Truthfully, I felt like a shit Summer Queen anyways. I didn’t do all that I set out to do, and still have shit to do that I keep putting off. And if I don’t get it done in the next couple of days, there will be no plants to summon back to life next Spring. Not the end of the world (I am a small but unique part), but still a bit depressing. Plus I laxed on things that I should’ve kept doing, and I feel that there are a couple of things I am going to have to back out of if I’m going to try and accomplish what I want to do and keep the proper focus. Not a bad thing I guess to do in the Winter months.
‘Cause she’s a cruel mistress
And a bargain must be made
But oh, my love, don’t forget me
When I let the water take me
It’s interesting how quickly my mood changed. One moment I was a soul-bull-roaring maenad, the next a witch who dances in the snow with wolves and longs to drown in the deep, dark sea. I don’t expect it to stay in one place for long, either. I seem to ping-pong back and forth between wanting to burn on the funeral pyre and lining my pockets full of stones to drown in the river. Both are ecstatic, heart-rendering screams for love (to love and to be loved), a connection with the Divine that is going to consume me heart, mind, and soul. What could be more perfect than that?
