Year Wheel Poems
What if the Year Wheel is not a wheel at all? Cyclical, yes. But perfectly round, turning through AllTime in predictable, balanced, calendrical patterns? What if, like all of Nature, the Seasons turn at the bidding of their own Will, not at the insistence of the randomly assigned squares on pages of days and weeks and months? The Sabbats are seasons. Each one slipping without clamor into the next—like a lover in the arms of the beloved. This year the Autumn Equinox in New England snuck by with nary a whisper—heard only by the deeply perceptive—and Time danced a jig right on into Samhain. The Power of the seasons build, quick or slow, to a crescendo and ThAt—the pinnacle of Power, the Moment the Momentum has been building toward—is the Sabbat. When we are quiet, perceptive, aligned with Nature, we Know when the Moment of Power arrives and we seize it, become it, let it become us. And we Know the Wheel is not round at all, but flexible and changeable as we. Nature is a SHape-SHifter. How dare we try to pin Her down and demand she hold one shape for our convenience?
I offer these poems, gleaned from the workings of the Craft as the Wheel turns, bumping and wobbling along in her glorious unbalanced magic:
