Heart racing like when a flame hits the wind, I stand on the precipice.
The air is perfumed with fresh flowers, softening my start. Here I could stay,
but why would I when the alchemy of my yolk gave me wings?
My beginning is a golden beam meeting the sky. Only an errand so important
could give the horizon such context, such conquest that I must leap if only to feel
the gust of cool air. Perhaps I should be worried. The threats keep longer hours
then I. But I was not made of hinges shrugging into a forced opening. Those sighs
are for a changing season, and a heavy door. I am made from the music of the Sun,
each note carving the wind whose cold hands I must warm. If this perfume can permeate
the sky, then so can I. Like that orange bullet lofting towards heaven, I can also become
fire on the other side of light. – Ashlie McDiarmid
**A poem I wrote honoring the Fool. Do you write poetry? How does the tarot come into your words? Much love wolf-darlings!