These are the days of the late-winter ache, and I’ve learned to hear the haunted call of those never-born-always-dead hags who are wiser than I..
She came to my door fire-eyed this morning, retching pomegranate juice and demanding to know where my underworld words come from. I told her I..
I wouldn’t bother her. Not today. Best keep those formalities tucked away in your pockets for those mannerly friends blessed with visions tamer than hers,..
Stand just here and indulge my snow-struck heart for a moment. Hold my hand so tightly our pitiful flesh loses all meaning; then and only..
Don’t follow me; not tonight. That holly-haired hag of wintertide is lurking ‘round the edges of these forbidden lands, and only shecan properly eulogize the..
Sit beside this slow-cracking harvest fire with me, pilgrim. The business of that swelling blood moon is to nudge our nightdreams toward our majestic dead,..
You’re sure to meet a cackling hag who sits on her highest ribs, dangling her legs and skipping stones in her blood. She’s a trickster,..
Come, pilgrim. Rest here in my garish summer garden. I’ve just poured fresh moon-blood on rosemary in the name of the Cailleach, and I’ve nothing..
Ah, yes. I remember now. This righteous May moon is swelling between my ribs as it always does, lifting these aging breasts a bit higher..