The Waiting

A life measured in circles

er first memory was of the circle.

Her birth.

She was whispered the story
that became a memory.

Her mother wandered into the forest,
alone, as was custom.

She was ready.

Now she waited.

She drew a circle,
deep enough to protect the fire,
and packed the trench
with dry leaves and small branches.

She placed one bowl of water
to the west
and one to the east.

Slowly,
she rose to light the circle
and sat down in the center.

For two days
and two nights,

she chanted for protection
and grace.

On the third day,
she was visited by a raven

and her baby girl.

The infant was placed in the circle
as the fire blazed around her.

***************

The world around her
was turning to ash.

Brittle branches snapped at a glance.

The meadow grasses begged
for a drop of rain.

The creek had run dry.

She drew her circle in the sand
and lit the candles.

Standing in the center,
she called to the clouds above.

Prayers.
Promises.
Sacrifices.

All in the name of a harvest.

She watched the flock
collapse from thirst.

The fish died in the stream.

She muttered a prayer for all that was lost, collected her belongings.

She moved on.

***************

She found herself
at the edge of the forest.

They had left,
as instructed.

It was her time.

She was alone.

She carved a circle
into the damp earth,

pausing at the scent
released from the soil.

She sat in the center
and placed a bowl of water
before her.

She hummed the prayer
for beckoning the ancestors.

And waited.