Mj Pettengill

Before Death’s final blow, she was but a flower that never faded, showin’ me the fierceness of a mother’s love.

From the bosom of the devastated earth, a voice goes up with our own. It says, "Disarm, Disarm!"

Within a short time, many of my former curls were in messy, swirling clumps, blowing gently in the trees.

Ah yes, we are resilient and resourceful.

My father had been dying for so long, that letting go was bittersweet.

Here, in the fields of Marigold Moon, is a lovely pond.

No selfies or social media posts were available for drumming up prayers or GoFundMe platforms to offer financial support.

Although there is much ado about it in health-food stores, this magical plant is somewhat overlooked and unacknowledged in its habitat.

We were not rich, but we were content, imperfect, and lovingly frayed around the edges.

The song of the red-winged blackbird—sweet and clear—has strayed along the mountain path, finding its way home.

Alchemy [ al-kuh-mee ] Any magical power or process that transmutes a common substance, usually of little value, into a great deal of sense.

The very ancient ones are our guides. It is up to us to awaken to them.

When my son was a little boy, he found a rock.

We were good girls breaking the rules, running around on the beach in the twilight hours in our pajamas.

It’s been so long since you went away, my butterscotch curls are silver and gray.

After all, she watches me unpack the shopping bags. I have a lot to learn about hunting.

It was a dream-filled night. And I had lost my way.

May we remember who we are as humans and only offer love and support or nothing at all.

As time marches on, it is clear that respecting and honoring our elders has waned into non-existence.

When a great divide becomes as vast as an ocean between us, decide that your anchor is a sail