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.
Soul Walker
It's the morning of the Eve of Oimelc. I sit on the front porch with our youngest coven kid, waiting for the school bus.
As we wait, we sing songs of spring.
Walker in the silent places,
Walker where no one may go,
our aloneness cries out to you,
Walker in the Snow.
The Arctic cold that has paralyzed the city for days has finally broken. There's even a little moisture in the air. A dusting of snow has fallen overnight; the snow diamonds sparkle.
Winter is halfway over. Somewhere—not here, but somewhere—the year's first snowdrop is blooming.
Spring is coming.
Shed no tears: we are her children.
Winter passes, this I know.
Snowfall glistening, we are listening
for her footsteps in the snow.
We sing.
Philip Wayne
"Soul Walker"
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