Pagan Child

by Anita Yoder

At owl’s hour, I crouch, bow, stretch up, but never touch
Her distant elegance.
She takes my breath away—
Her pearlescent shimmer
Across her cratered crescent.
I offer fistfuls of amber leaves and feathered seeds,
Ruby rosehip garlands form a flame
To thank, adore, receive her silent gaze.

Dawn blazes through thick mist
And softens frost made weak with
Golden swords that slay the gray
And knights the naked trees.
He rises higher, brighter, fire ball
That arcs across his burnished dome
And dips down low, but never small, making space
For night’s pearled empress to rule.

Three times a day—first blaze, high sky, and lowered light—I
Lay my treasures down:
My bread, this weathered club, a polished bone
Repose on wrinkled stone
To say that I make none, enliven none,
But all I love and touch
Sprouts from steady flare of sun
And stare of royal moon.


If she wouldn’t have a much, much better option, Anita would worship the sun and moon.


Photography by Kenneth Godoy

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