By Daleth Carey Hall (a.k.a. Ideagirl)
When I was a child (this is true)
I crouched by the window, a jar in my hand,
And tried to fill it with moonlight
And trap the light with the lid.
I wasn’t sure it was possible,
Or that it wasn’t.
It wasn’t. But now
It doesn’t have to be.
Six words convey my new-found creed:
Some things don’t belong in jars.
When I was not used to
My body, I tested
Fingers in fan-blades, spectacular falls.
Each limit imposed, I madly resisted
Exploring the edges of time, love and debt.
The patience of earth I could not abide,
Nor laws, nor rules, nor simple facts.
The wise one bides this simple law:
The limits of a thing define its shape.
A rhythm is both beats and silence.
The notes not played create the song.
When I was in shadows, I pitied the sun
Its bright frankness,
Its glinting, its hope.
I grieved in advance for soon-to-die plants
And heard the clang of the ending
In every beginning: merry you meet, but
Once married, you’ll part.
You parted a curtain
In my heart, and the inrushing Sun
Scrubbed the floor, watered plants,
Planted trust in beginnings, within every ending.
So in perfect love, we’ll return to dust,
To dear Aìne the wild, with thorns in your hair,
To the Green Man in brightness, and the Hunter’s dark lair,
To Brighid the maker, the melter, the gold—
Tangled in my cells are letters from you
And a dark, bright voice that could be my soul.