What is a spell
if not a lightening rod
for yearning,
a vessel for collecting
the energy of ages,
an envelope for carrying
the meeting place of tendrils?
Distilled wordlets
bathed in vision
simmered in wisdom
poured into being
to quench a waiting thirst.
The bustling matron
pauses in the line,
readying herself to hear
from shaman,
or wizardess or oracle or priest,
not dusty words by rote,
but her own electric destiny.