Whoever loves the least of Mine
Loves Me.

The Goddess Bast calls to Her cats.
Her dark protective presence shields
A blanket
Against the winter’s snows.

I wonder how Her children live in this frigid ice.
I see the maps of their presence in the snow
That circle around the offerings I leave for these lost lights.

In this dark time of Hecate’s calling
The limbs fall hard and brittle.
An old man, 50 feet from safety, breathes ice into his lungs
His last cry to the night.

But Bast’s children slip through the corridors of cold.
These homeless children whose eyes reflect the Moon
Whose sleek bodies seek their own survival.

They walk a hypnotic path around the danger.
They close in upon the object of their fire.
They fly like arrows through the dearth of this withered season.

And one, perhaps, will fly like sparks into a hearth
That will welcome a harsh body that holds a thrilling grace.
And curl like smoke around your tender feet.

Whoever loves the least of Mine
Loves Me.
 

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