From Modern Mythcraft to Magical Surrealism

Stilling

Her grandchildren are little greygreen screefalls of tumbling action
rumbling up over her shoulders in the moonlight
just to fling themselves down her incline, down the long hill
thump thudding to a stop in a flurry of giggles and fallen twigs and leaves
Her sons and daughters are slower, bouldering their way farther into the cave
carving out more room for the next crop of kin
steadily staring down bears looking to find a home in the hollow places
singing low songs as they work
The night lightens, brightens, and her family moves inside
but still she sits, between her mates
her wife is a bit cracked from the ice last winter
her husband is very weathered around the ears and toes
but they are good to lean on, as they ever were
she remembers the slate tears she wept when her parents turned
that gritty grief feels foolish now, a hasty thing of youth
she knows now nothing is lost in the light
stretches her shoulders, flexes her toes into soil one last time
it is a small change, in a way, and a welcome one
to be
still

Cislyn Smith

Cislyn Smith

Cislyn Smith likes playing pretend, playing games, and playing with words. She calls Madison, Wisconsin her home. She has been known to crochet tentacles, write stories at odd hours, and study stone dead languages. She is occasionally dismayed by the lack of secret passages in her house. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in Strange Horizons, Diabolical Plots, and Mermaids Monthly. She is a graduate of the Viable Paradise Workshop, a first reader for Uncanny and GigaNotoSaurus, a founding member of The Dream Foundry, and co-chair of the Flights of Foundry Convention.