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 parting the crushed velvet mists to peer with curious eyes upon the scriptures of sovereignty.
Death murmurs in the dream-time, carrying a promise of time and place, and of stylized pace, with an almost desperate encouragement to slow down. When it leaks its cold breath upon you and terror shakes you from sleep, when you find yourself rushing past the moment, and when you fall into the past dizzy with vertigo, find the nearest tree and ask it to remind to you.
Your fear is eased by the peaceful leaf corpses heroically splayed across the tufted moss and stone encrusted dirt.
The infant turtle is wading at the edge of the pond. At what pace do you speak, breathe and condemn wrong? At what instance do you raise your voice? With clenched jaw and wrinkled brow or bright eyes and open heart.
Look deep into the core of the apple and remember where you came from. Remember where you will return to.
Cradle this sacred fruit in your palms now and take some time to meditate on all that you have accomplished since you first planted your cherished seeds in the fertile belly of Springtime. At Beltane when your inner maiden and green man danced innocence across the flowering presence of potential and merged in deepening love. Since you burst forward with the suns fiery passion at Solstice and quickened by the light of your own determined growth. You have accomplished so much. Since you plucked the first fruits of your harvest at Lughnasadh.
Now, as the Great Wheel turns upon darker days and your crown flickers with dream-time vision, what do you see? What do you intend for your expansion, for the well-being of your beloved world?
Stoke the fire beneath your cast-iron cauldron, deep in the dark woods, in circle with your sisters, and raise your fearless fists to the sky.
It is time to feel the shivering, articulate quake of the thunder gods as you storm with decadent determination into the mature presence of the Harvest Queen.
May the bards and poets tell your story to the edge of the world. Chant into the morning and witness the orange encrusted horizon as its lifted by the inevitable dancing silhouettes and flecked with winged serpents and crows.
There are disrobing maples near where the sunflowers used to be, standing in mountain pose against the grey sky. Yours is the divine acknowledgment at the gift exchange. The generous gratitude for your first breath of awakening.
She smiles at you with the same devotion.
Thank her for these gifts.
Your mother loves you more than words could ever convey, so carry that with you in your medicine pouch and thrust your shield in the ground before you, as it is time to choose your destiny.