It's Still Life

The Return of the Wise Woman

The Preparation
The world has gone thin
at the edges.
The air, a gossamer veil,
smells of apples and smoke.

A single candle is lit,
a sun in a kitchen window
overlooking the sea.
It is the same flame grandmother lit,
and her grandmother before her.

A beacon.
A welcome.
A promise
that the hearth is still tended.

The Invocation
She still walks the shorelines
of memory,
whose hands are shaped
by salt wind and sage,
who learned the language
of the tides
and the turning earth —

come home.

By the rhythm of the Baltic
on the stones,
By the scent of apples
in the cool autumn dark,
By the faithful flame
that has never truly gone out —

come home.

The Counting of Steps
Listen.
Beyond the whisper of the veil,
a sound emerges.

A tread across the porch —
slow,
certain.
It is the rhythm of one
who carried
water and wisdom.

The footfall
of one who knew
that every threshold is sacred.

It is the sound of a love
that never learned
how to be absent.

Of Recognition
The candle flame,
our tiny, breathing sun,
flickers.
It does not startle or fear.
It leans.
It bends its light
toward the closed door.

A golden bow of recognition,
a silent, fervent yes.

And the room,
which held only your longing,
is now filled
with the presence
of deep, salt-kissed peace.

It is now filled
with the quiet strength of the one
who loved me.

The air is no longer thin,
but rich,
and thick with belonging.

The Welcome
Come in from the wandering.
Your chair is here.
Your wisdom is remembered.

The hearth you tended
now tends to you.
The love you planted
has grown deep roots.

You as the keeper
of our oldest stories.
Rest your feet by this fire.

Your tread is in our heartbeat.
Your wisdom is in our bones.
You are home.

Let the night be deep,
and the peace, profound.

She is here.
So it is.