The Gathering at the Cauldron
She has called me to the sacred fire since I first drew breath,
But always I have resisted,
Until this moment.
So weary now that even fear is too heavy a burden,
Fear of death, of life,
Of Self.
She is the grandmother I cannot remember,
Wisdom etched upon her face in hard-won creases,
Rivers of pain long dried out.
I dip myself into her cauldron, watch is scald away my ignorance,
Reach to her like a greedy child.
And she takes me.
Her arms receive my weary soul, breathing understanding
In me with every breathe I breath
And her ancient breath stirs new life in my veins,
But her voice is empty.
I must make my own way as she has,
Prepare myself for the darkness to come, graciously, joyfully,
And trust that light will return.
At the gathering of the cauldron, she is present
At the meeting of the kin, she is present
At the burning of the night fire, she is present
At the sacrificing of the old and the pledging of the new, she is
present among us.
Author: Derek Thompsom
Published on Pagan Heart
Witches Of The Craft® 
Beautifully written, thank you for sharing this piece of wisdom.
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