The beckoning moon mother cradles you in the fine flickering glaze of her benevolent aura. The harvest holds you with ripened majesty bearing a fruitful guardianship as you ground into the enriched soil.
Decorated with crimson hues of disheveled dahlias and ivy fringe, your golden crown sparkles with flushed rubies and your gown smells of burnt amber and patchouli rose.
There is a quiet opening through a torrent of wild winds and the days dwindle while nighttime billows over you with its hooded cloak. You are tousled by the long-armed embrace of the vulnerable trees and the sideways stare of a lurking squash spirit.
These ubiquitous convulsions of birthing into crone-hood sound like rattling bones on an old oak door. You are partin...