Season of The Sticks

 

Where all is bare for thee to See

here We are

 season of the sticks it be

Fur at her feet the old witch crow felt the water on her brow as she flowed through the window, recalling a time which was to be in a future and a past that always was, cyclical as is nature she moved her circles around and around, she spun them through the air.

 ...

"Can we keep that stick?"....She spoke firmly while continuing to sweep the dirt from the ground as she looked around; she didn't want to be the final say but she knew the history of that stick, the smooth feel of loving care to not splinter and wound with freckles from time gone, which it whispered for only the small ears to hear. One last time she swept this place to make new for a youthful view. 

Watching her husband peruse the fishing polls in front of him, she knew the dilemma, "Fishing polls don't go bad." She had come from an old line of fisher women and didn't think a corner with sticks was out of place.

"knock, knock, knock on wood and See do I detect a pixie here to help her be", the old witch crow spoke to the old cabinet that was to be left behind...she swept the old out ready for the new and different...maybe one day that cabinet would sparkle in the day. That cabinet, that knew how to stay behind and become more, for some else, an old hat doing an old magic job.

She hollered to her husband, "Keep that broom if it's a good one", good tools are good tools, even if you think, 'it's just a broom'., and sometimes let it stand a tall to watch...

They folded the magic carpet that had traveled from here to there, around the world and back again, some in between and many feet did it steed. One day it would be, a place in the clouds, where the gods would tread their feet amidst their midst.  

one down

Alhamdulillah

He amassed the mountain to move across land to meet her on the other end of time, his pale steed the one that moved matter through space. She took the fast horse, pale of colour to speed the way to a blue shift future as she gathered the wind at her bey. 

Be still and listen

One day I will tell you a story

The stick made the pile with the fishing polls too, along with the brooms that clean the dregs from your rooms.