She walks where rivers bend and willows lean, With soil-stained hands and eyes as dark as rain, Her breath is stitched through fields of gold and green, She bears the bloom, the burden, and the grain. No throne of stars, no crown of forged delight, Yet all the living know her by her name; She spins the dusk into the cloth of night And warms the fire that births the morning flame. The roots remember her where feet once fell, Each mother’s whisper, each unspoken vow; She binds the fates in flax and holy well, With blessings pressed to every furrowed brow. Though gods may rise and fall in endless tide, The Earth remains—with Mokosh at her side.
This entry was posted on Saturday, April 12th, 2025 at 2:57 pm and is filed under Sonnets. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.
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