I Am One of the Last

I am herbal remedies smoldering in a cast iron cauldron

Late on an Autumn night

Mulling spices and salted pumpkin seeds

Strewn across a slate table 

I am earth stones of numerous sizes and origins

Collected in willow wood incense ladles

Or strung across faded tapestries

I am filtered moonlight speckling

Dew kissed sage leaves

Tucked away in rickety window boxes

Ivy tendrils weaving in between

Half-hung weather worn shutters

Who have tasted more sweet rain

Than all the aspens in the grove

I am reminiscence 

Painting the days like water-colors 

A culture past like the last year's dawn

I am rose offerings wrapped in the roots of elder trees

Salt circles and hung bouquets

Drying in the ancient winds of a forgotten mother

A mother who still prunes the stubborn thorns of her children

Whose tears never cease and slowly 

Run thicker with poison

I am the final battalion

Whose knife is of tarot cards 

And shield of mortar and pestle

I am my mother's child

I am

One of the last.