May's New Moon

My hands are soaked from holding your weakness, or mine,
between bare, iced toes are elements of this Earth so tangled into my cycle.
 
Here, in the belly of my reverie, is a gratitude
for my own fertility, for the consistency in my womb and of this New Moon.
 
There, in the darkness, I watch the quiet period pass,  
drink a little more Thistly Cross than I should,  
mark the occasion with a hand on a female idol.
 
It seems only right to praise this rather than shame it,
when society's quick-fix chemicals are so cleansed from my veins.  
There is pure magic in predicting pain and taking pleasure in it.
 
One chooses how they spin life, I am sure.  
I choose to be positive,
Sister - walk with me beneath this dim sky.