When you lose everything, then you track.
This world is always spinning,
on chicken legs, at the edge of the forest.
You will need each chip of obsidian, every flake of flint,
all caught parts of conversations.
Glimpses of clematis behind fences in hidden courtyards.
To remember a soaker rain, trill of orioles at first light.
Every scent of hyacinth, of jasmine, is a vow,
every birdsong, the call to prayer,
a rooftop in another city, but always your own.
Call in all the magic.
Set a place at your table, silver knives, fishbones,
chess pieces of ancient ivory.
Can you see it? You’ve been so many times.
You’ve been the one who kneads the bread,
the one who comes to the table in sackcloth,
the one who sits beside the king, in aquamarine and emerald.
The crown, the crow, the crone.
It is all the same.
This time bring the sword,
This blade strikes once and once only.
Ask for leave, and do one thing right,
It’s all you can do.
You must ask your question.
Permission will be given in both worlds.
There is a second chance,
at least in this story.
Tell it the old way, aloud.
Build a fire of the nine woods gathered, apple, hawthorn, hazel,
willow, rowan, vine and fir.
You already know. You have done this.
You will make what you desire appear, by your own seeking,
by your willingness
to sing as you approach,
to walk slowly, to keep going,
to serve what you walk towards with your whole,