Hymn for Hecate
Greetings, Hecate, laughing, bright-eyed crone,
wrinkled and beautiful with one white eye:
All of us come to you, and all alone —
and we fear you much, who disprove the lie
that change and death cannot touch, will not take.
Yet all your sorcery begins in change,
where high roads intersect, and pathways diverge:
in hospice, in fire, in woodland lake
swiftly you manifest, and re-arrange
every chosen path so they all must merge
at one last heartbeat and one final breath,
with weaving completed and pattern done.
Such sure doom need not be taken on faith.
You bring us to our endings, one by one.
Though you may appear capricious and cruel,
still you push us to shape reality
and purpose our lives with meaning and love.
Your long iron shears are a well-wrought tool,
warning us with our own mortality
not to trust some perfect heaven above,
but to live and laugh in beauty each day,
to water the thirsty, and warm the cold,
to forge metal, weave cloth, and shape the clay…
to love as if each breath were purest glod
spun and then threaded into the weft
celebrating joy and relieving strain.
For what we create, not what we believe
becomes our gift to those whom we have left
when your aged hands finish winding our skein.