My Guiding Mother

To The One Who Moves My Blood,

You are not a mere symbol.

You are a calendar of bone and blood,

a pulse that I learned before I took a breath.

I live by the beam of your light,

waxing, waning, rising,

each phase a worn doorway that I walk through each month.

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When you are new, I find my stillness.

I bury my wishes in the soil,

feed the earth with that which no longer serves.

I whisper my name alongside yours,

and promise to begin again.

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When you wax, I build.

Every spell, every intention, every heartbeat,

grows rounder as you rise.

I leave you milk and honey in the window,

and water clear as the truth I seek.

You teach that growth is worth worship.

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When you are full, I burn.

My body hums with your energy.

The tides in my blood ache for you,

and I dance.

Bare feet in the grass,

skin silver with your kiss, wild, forgiven.

This is when I offer you gratitude,

for the blood, the birth, the breath, the becoming.

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When you wane, I release.

I wash my hands in saltwater,

untie the binds to those I release,

and let what was once sacred dissolve.

You teach me a soft death,

how to return to light without mourning.

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Each month, my offering is myself.

In every stage, I give my soul.

You keep my shape in your orbit,

a woman circling her truth,

waxing, waning, always whole.

With devotion,

your daughter of the tides.