By BoJenn
The Beavers Moon
Chilly night on the 7th of the Nigredo,
anchored in November’s shadowed heart.
I watched the lit sky from the moonlight’s edge,
wandering within the deep, dark forest.
The hoot of an owl marked my passing,
twigs muffled beneath careful steps.
And there I tootsied all around,
listening to the whispers of the earth.
“Hush!” I said,
though it was my own voice I obeyed,
following the orders of an inner guide.
The forest echoed with chatter—
beavers, squirrels, ancient murmurs—
and I listened, attuned,
to their quiet, secret tales.
“Quietly you must rest;
no strife, no worry,” they whispered,
“for only in the stillness
do the shadowed voices speak.”
Before painting images of them,
I channeled the energies of men,
lost in the woods,
many years ago,
still seeking safety, family, friends.
I invited them to seance,
opened heart and mind, soul and body,
to hear the voices of the lost
beneath the Beavers Moon.
It is chilly here;
I pull a blanket close,
sip coffee with cream,
and take pen to paper.
I write of you,
on this enlightened journey,
guided by the moon,
and the whispers of the forest.
My Art
My Near Death Experience Arts and Thoughts 