white lying on the planes of roofs, limning bare branches, dancing as moths in front of the bulb of the streetlamp. a cast of the shovel unites whiteness with a hillock, but the roaring wind throws it back, crystals on a white face.
now is the time for the Hearth Mother -- Brighid, Vesta, Hestia, Tabiti -- the speaking flame around which we huddle to tell tales, to ink our lives on the white that threatens to erase us with its sameness. to share sustenance and laughter, or to curl up in the white blanket of solitude, letting hunger hallow us as it hollows -- an aeolian harp played by the winds of winter, a flute to the mouth of Marzana.
and so. i praise the Hearth Mother that fires the furnace and feeds the belly, that holds back the tide of winter within four walls. flickering flame altar-dancing, the hum of necessary machinery, the smell of baked goods, the white crescent of the cat on the lap. Hearth Mother, i praise you.