Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
New Moon of the Seasons
Do you go out every month, just after sunset, to greet the New Moon in the West?
(They say that it's bad luck to see her through glass, but this means through a window; wearing glasses doesn't count.)
Do you greet her with the sound of horns?
Do you blow her a kiss when you see her?
Do you raise to her your hand?
Do you bend to her your knee?
Do you give her a word of greeting, like Love to you, my Light?
Do you carry in your pocket money, for her blessing?
(For long and long, the silver penny was our major money, and so it was reckoned that money was the Moon's, always waning, like her, and—hopefully—waxing again.)
Do you sing to her a song, like Hail to Thee, Thou New Moon?
Do you burn to her incense?
Do you light her a fire of welcome?
Do you pour to her a libation?
Do you drink to her toasts?
Do you bake to her sweet cakes?
Do you dance for her?
Do you make for her a holiday?
Is she not worth it, our Moon?
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