Magic grows in the interstices:
shadowy blades springing
from the hands of statues,
herb and root, flower and fruit
all soaking in the first light
of the moon, changes kindled
for cure or cruelty. We know less
now than we did, encroaching
darkness blurring our sureties.
Like a tide licking sandy shores,
time circles back to the ends
of beginnings, our best foot
no longer forward, our faith
conjured in silent groves.
We stand on the threshold
and admire the past’s glow
and know our own story
becomes the secret whispered
between worshippers as fireflies
spark wonder among the trees.
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