November falls and like deep magick, it smells of cold amber. Cold enough to hold us to absolute honesty. The secret melody of the Piper seduces us towards the tender edges. To follow red hawk and wolf for half a moon – sometimes trees grow too wide and hide us from our eyes – but when love comes, it comes rushing in like endless ocean, wrapping our world in weightless blue – hunter and hunted marry barefoot in the deep wet black soil. Cold and bony are the trees, and land remembers the feet of those who fed it and the animals speak of the selfless kindness given to them when no one was watching.
The tiny quiet still voice within of primordial wisdom – shhh, shhh – it’s the uncompromising drumming of the human heart, beginning our bodies of intentional dialogue. Of how we always choose love. Of how some stories are only fully dreamt and told when flames rise high inside the hearthstones – into trust and safety we settle – soft as rock against the trains of river streams. Smells of oak burning. And cold amber. What’s left of this loosens and water takes it away. No less purposeful. No less needed. No less loved.
Written by Lubomira Kourteva
Cover art by Maxime Simoncelli sylfvr.fr