Reincarnated Witch

Boulders and water

Boulders fold themselves around themselves

with infinite slowness.

Rain is falling upon them in cascades

and small drips.

Within millions, billions, of years,

eternities in other words

for as transient a being like me

the boulders get the experience of being

soaked and then completely dry

again

but how it truly feels for the boulders themselves

is a deep flirtation with being alive for the one

who walks by.

The slowness in these processes of experience

are, of course, a mystery.

To place your hand on the back of one of the boulders

is like laying your hand on a back.

No reason to define it more.

 

Sometimes you can see foxes, and others rub

themselves up against them to get just some of

the soaked inexpressible on them.

 

Wanting to show someone something

that is slower than one self

in reality just adapted differently

is like a smile breaking through times,

something about nature one has to try over and over.

 

*

Heron

 

The day before yesterday I saw a heron, who owned the town

because there was no special interest in that.

The way he flew and moved his head, as in, and for,

rhythms of life I know nothing about was calming,

a sudden deliverance of time for everything.

Nature is infinitely rich on time.

The pulse, like a ritual in the middle of it all.

*

Reincarnated Witch 

In the river, naked, being washed by the green beings.

What was told to be drowning was a portal, many portals.

So much, so many to not listen to.

Ear against moss, mouth against bark.

Machete, I thank you.

Cutting down, passing through.

Thank you, Hekate.

I did it over and over.

Under white birch trees.

In front of a fire.

Let that lightning untie all knots in my veins.

When I grow up, I want to be a river, I wrote.

The title of a poem several times.

A note, but distant.

Just one wing dipped and in oil.

The wilderness of healing.

The knowledge that a woman from my family tree

was burned as a witch.

The sense that so many from that family

tried to burn me in many ways.

Reincarnation. A witch’s tool.

The green beings kiss my face.

Once more at home where I have always been.

*


Rune Kjær Rasmussen

is an animist, writer, singer, and occasional painter from Denmark.

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Course: Being Pagan

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The Fires of Meaning