A Meeting
~ Steve Klepetar
i
Because times were bad,
I think he came to comfort me
on an October day filled with light.
ii
He had been gone so long
into that silent world
that his face was gray,
his hands wrinkled and cold.
iii
He spoke softly, and his words
rose like smoke in the clear air.
iv
He touched me on the shoulder,
smiling sadly,
while outside some young men
gathered leaves into piles,
loaded them into pickup trucks.
v
A few birds twittered in the trees,
the small pond glittered in the sun,
and together we felt the earth
as it stretched a little,
yawning like someone
who had been up late the night before.
The article is brief, but it does give credit where credit is due. The box of talismans and charms is the property of one of ten people found together in the ruins of Pompeii, all of whom are women or children, in a room in the servants’ quarters of a family home.
The scientists speculate that some of the objects were for personal adornment, but also acknowledge that many of them would have been used for magical purposes. None of the objects are made of gold or precious stones, so the archeologists conclude that the box belonged to a servant or slave, rather than a member of the family which owned the house.
Next time you look at your charm box (or bag, or five pound can), stop for a moment and consider your magical ancestress, and see if you can feel a connection to her work in providing hope and comfort nearly 2,000 years ago, much as you provide hope and comfort for those with whom you share your magic today.
Experts in Pompeii Have Discovered a Female Sorcerer’s Mysterious Arsenal of Charms—See Them Here
Mabon
By Annie Finch
For Mabon (fall equinox), Sept. 21
Late September
~ Amy Lowell
Tang of fruitage in the air;
Red boughs bursting everywhere;
Shimmering of seeded grass;
Hooded gentians all a’mass.
Warmth of earth, and cloudless wind
Tearing off the husky rind,
Blowing feathered seeds to fall
By the sun-baked, sheltering wall.
Beech trees in a golden haze;
Hardy sumacs all ablaze,
Glowing through the silver birches.
How that pine tree shouts and lurches!
From the sunny door-jamb high,
Swings the shell of a butterfly.
Scrape of insect violins
Through the stubble shrilly dins.
Every blade’s a minaret
Where a small muezzin’s set,
Loudly calling us to pray
At the miracle of day.
Then the purple-lidded night
Westering comes, her footsteps light
Guided by the radiant boon
Of a sickle-shaped new moon.
