Joy

Joy

In the way of the Craft, the young girl awakens at her anointed hour, thrumming juices, teetering on the subtle slide of Woman to walk the cool passageway in the dim of dawn, stones cold on tender feet her gauge of the rush of rivered time. There in The Windowed Room she walked the prescribed steps, tall, supple, certain, shining, in spilled first light spreading sensuously across the wall of Acumen as she surely selects from breath blown crystal canters of acid, sparkling in sweet sinister surreptition, one, that one, single shimmered beaker of waiting oil, lifts in the circle of slender tapers of her forever forebearer fingers - sprinkled solitary goblets to fall into concentric centered circles, watching with her gazing eye for the arched gnarled foot of the Alchemist appearing at the splat of the final drop, arriving in precise promised punctuality in that sun surged joy soaked room to sweep the sudden swirling filigreed forgettable flotsam of her Innocent's yesterday into the coalesced certainty of her sun spun Tomorrow as light engulfs her nodding now.