Why is Baba Yaga knocking at my door?
My house is in the city, not deep in the forests floor.
Why carry she that basket?
Is it to gather up my eggs?
And carry them back to her hasty nest that stands on chicken’s legs?
What voice she uses that crackles with age?
Surely she does not think me a sage
If I sit quiet while stirring my stew,
Perhaps my company no more she’ll pursue.
But the smell of her pipe and the creak of my chair,
Tells me she’s settled for a long time right here.
But why has Baba Yaga come when I’m alone?
“If you’d answer your door,dear,” she grated, “I’ve come t’take ya home.”
These Are My People: Lydia Khandro
Dried brown leaves and gray branches of solemn cycle
ignite to become golden lakes of wild hip-deep depths
The Blue Ridge Mother bears twice the ritual witness
standing cool, wrapped in the garment of her ancestor,
cradling her Divinity with skirts raising winds of power.
Her hair halos with the light of life, love, and nurturing.
She is the Great Mother bearing her Winter-born in holiness
The heaven’s kaleidoscope windows open to cover the blue
The calliope sings the night song in an ageless tune
Peacocks pay twilights ransom of rich pastel hues
That firefly the indigo with wishes star bright true
A moon-shaped chariot praises ascension of flight
With borrowed provision to illuminate the night
As the wolf lifts her head, her howling pack meal tight
Her prey within her grasp, her children in her sight
The night witch heeds the turning wheel spinet
By earth, by air, by fire, air, spirit
She stirs her wares, skyclad she dances within it.
Satisfied she ties off her charms without intent to rescind it!