.:::The Beautiful Black Magic of The Elder Mother:::.
hey mamma, hey … can you hear my call?
all I can smell is the fall of fall.
the air constricts, the darkness sticks,
as the clock, ever so slowly, ticks.
you, of all, know how to navigate nigrescent nooks to open the gate.
on a pendulum of consciousness
you swing as a sacred succubus,
something like a benevolent beast
burgeoning an alchemical feast.
your diaphoretic white flowers
release sweat like inside out showers.
your beautiful berries, black as night,
so sweetly slay somatic plight.
your wood, hailed holy, will never burn,
but will make music for which we yearn.
your syrup seeps & soothes like elm,
sambucus nigra, of europe’s realm.
at your strong roots we bow in prayer
to humbly request your magic care …
“lady ellhorn, give me of thy wood, and I will give thee of mine, when I become a tree”
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