Moonlight and Mugwort

Tonight, beneath a full and whispering moon,
I tramped barefoot through my forest—
naming plants like old friends,
pulling vines from what once bloomed green,
the tall grasses wrapping my ankles in secrets.

Ticks climbed like pilgrims toward my skin,
and I, laughing, stripped bare on the porch—
offering myself to the rites of the wild.
A lover’s inspection under the eye of the stars.
Then into the steam and balm of a shower,
home-brewed oils anointing the folds
of this body that belongs to Earth.

In my garden, I stood with the hibiscus,
thinking of my cousin in Hawaii—
her hands building an off-grid life
as mine tend the soil of Appalachia.
And then, as if summoned by thought alone,
her message arrived:
a story of a woman who found God
not in a church, but in her garden.

Later, wrapped in my robe,
I sat under moonlight and learned of Sophia,
of the yew that hides in shaded coves,
of how the herbs I grow are not random—
but chosen, called, remembered.

And in that moment,
I felt it all—the threads
pulling across time, bloodlines, distance—
how close we truly are,
how a mere thought can stir the soul
of someone far away
and bring them near
as the breath between us.