the seed, the source, the sanctuary

all rites and rituals reserved

copyright 2002 by Stuart Dummit

hush...esthers of cinnamon and burnt apple are crawling on their bellies toward the shuddering door. The Wind, strong armed and transparent, rattles and rages beyond the panels of wood, carrying crystalized puffs of breath in swirling ribbons, seeking chinks in the walls and halls and tall, tall towers where the shadowy tingles and goose pimples live. And all the while, instead of casting darkness like shadows against the candle lit walls, the odors of autumn project their timely tastes upon the boards of ash that line the flickering yellow lit room.

Weighted eyelids begin to crust over. A warm and sweetish spring begins to trickle tickle across the fleshy cheek and cling as it runs, in defiance of gravity, across and down upon crochet-covered shoulder. Struggle against the sleep, my dear, and enjoy the guilty nap. The candles burn low, the drafts wind around the table legs and sneek beneath the shawl and between the prayer clasped hands. Night time arrives unnoticed and sweet.