The city leaves me feeling drained,
as though I collect all the feelings of those working around me.
I belong in my country.
It is vast, varied and sometimes vicious.
Home, heart and haven.
Everything I need is here, the wool and cotton and dye plants I work with, the people I love were grown here, or are growing here.
The place my soul sits,
in this fault line,
in these unpredictable soils,
in sacred spaces of my own design.
As I brew things, my elder tree informs me that I am not a witch.
Though cauldrons abound,
on coals or electricity
and bits of broken plumbing and rusted things
create small miracles... serendipitous marks
and my own type of gold.
Imprints, effects, affects of my land.
Seasons change my dyes,
Stitching calms my mind
And I study stones.
And notice marks in the pavement.