Passionless, through the night of crystal shards
which cut my feet and heart ‘til the Path is clearer by starlight,
I wander in amongst the trees who murmur ancient bark language,
To lie on soft gray mosses, be tickled by squirrels’ tails and
falling pine needles

She who travels with me is wisest of the Wise
a Nature Spirit born of deep places,
the dark spaces,
Furred, scaled and feathered at will,
she is seen and often not recognized.

I meet her at the well and the pools,
the cave and the mountaintop
Where we make sacred ceremony to
the wind and the rain, the sun and the moon.

And my Sisters come to join us soon,
painted in soul-colours,
wearing priestess robes,
or clad in the sky, glowing with anointment oil.

Here in this space of Silence,
this space of worship and honor,
we face the Great Mystery with courage and full hearts.
Bowing to the Mother, we receive Her blessings with joy.

Our Circle never breaks,
our will goes back and around time
to this our Sacred Ground,
and embraces us in shine and glory, evermore.

Wilma A. Loeffler
Lakeport

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