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Poetry ARIANROHD (Welsh moon; goddess of the Celts)

A poem by Mary Beth

You open for me
before the nightly mist
of my sensitivity.
A harvest that is full,
a half with a pull.
Your hollows I barely see
with a naked eye,
your eye
barely sees my naked hollows.

Bare and quiet,
you seem somber
and sleep during my days
made full with work,
made empty with questions.

I want to sleep with you but the stars already do.

I will see you
when my night becomes your day,
and your labor becomes my sleep.

Gladly,
you touch tired soils
of a burdened earth
yearning to be set free
from the myth of man
and the scythe of war.

You tolerate another night
of sky for me,
and at daybreak
your narrow escape goes unnoticed.
You will return to me
another night
to play in our own daylight.
At that moment,
you make the ocean shine
or the ocean shines for you.

I walk at the seaside
to see you,
and you to see me.

With your laurels
I await Christmas morning joy,
that pang in my heart,
like any other season
with or without you.