November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 7

Once you finish today’s prompt, you’ll officially be a week in to the challenge. Woo-hoo! Yay! Fantastique!

Okay, so today’s prompt is to write a myth poem. Investigate a well-known myth associated with your theme. Or make up a brand new myth. Be literal, or get surreal. Whatever you do, finish today’s prompt and do a one-week celebration dance!

Here’s my attempt for the day:

“Nothing works”

Silver bullets don’t kill werewolves;
Frankenstein’s Monster fears no fire;
witches never cackle over
bubbling cauldrons; and The Mummy
is not under an ancient curse.

Sunlight, wood stakes, holy water,
garlic and crosses–they can’t slow
the fast approaching Dracula.

Because not one of them exist.


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85 thoughts on “November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 7

  1. Amanda

    The balefire glows brightly this spring night
    Excited faces glow with delight
    Bringing the May Day festival to its pinnacle
    Nine woods combine to complete this ritual
    Symbolizing our Goddess, engulfed first
    White bark wood of Birch
    Symbolizing our God, that jolly bloke
    Strong, sacred wood of Oak
    Knowledge and wisdom withholds the Hazel
    Plunged in third among appraisal
    Red Rowan of the druid’s stave, bringer of life
    Bless us with protection while we listen to the fifes
    Faeries and magick ever do appease
    A door to other worlds between the Hawthorn trees
    Our lives will some day hang by a strand
    Willow, our death, reminds of those in Summerland
    End, but no end, Birth and rebirth
    Represented by no other than the forest Fir
    Where would we be without love and family
    Surrounded in the orchard by apple trees
    Last but not least, what keeps us intwined
    Covers all of our wood, this lovely vine
    Our ritual is over,our circle is closing
    The Goddess will ever in her love be enclosing

  2. Lynne

    Blessings of the Sun

    The sun looked down upon a small plant that drooped with sadness because it lacked color, felt dull, listless. It considered itself a weed and not what most would look upon as pretty, if they noticed it at all. Many creatures surrounded it with encouragement. Small ants tickled its leaves, a worm or two tunneled in for a closer look, a snail made its way towards it, three ladybugs tried to transfer some of their luck, a puppy sniffed at it, and mushrooms sprung up overnight in their efforts to brighten the plant’s spirits.

    Nothing worked until a flock of birds performed on their stage in the sky. As the plant looked up to watch the aerial acrobatics, it caught sight of the sun. The sun has forever played a part in supplying boundless beauty and diversity. It sent one of its rays straight down to kiss away the sadness and the little plant immediately turned bright sunshine yellow.
    And that was the origin of the dandelion.

  3. Shannon R

    Too often we assume
    that to waltz
    we need a dance parnter.
    Not true! I have seen
    women side stepping
    with babies cradled in their arms
    old women twirling their aprons
    and teenaged girls touring
    the room with a poodle closely
    following behind.
    True, all of this situations
    apply to only women. I suppose
    that when forced with a limited
    number of options – women
    will always chose to dance
    any means possible.

  4. Kathy Kehrli

    VII. Look What the Cat Dragged In

    God must hold felines in high esteem
    For He granted them nine lives
    While those cast in His own image
    Lay claim to a mere one.
    Why then did my childhood cat,
    Inky, succumb to cancer
    At barely six years of age?
    I don’t recall him ever escaping
    Any death-defying feats.
    His heart never stopped beating;
    His lungs never stopped breathing;
    His kidneys never stopped filtering
    Only to be restored to normal function—
    But my father’s did.
    Things like that
    Just aren’t supposed to happen.

  5. Iris Deurmyer

    My theme is built around water and the Anglo-Celtic goddess of the lake is Latis. She fell in love with a salmon so the gods turned him ito a warrior except in winter he had to return to becoming a salmon until spring. This is my attempt at a poem about this.

    Winter is approaching
    I can feel its chill
    What a sad time of year
    It always makes me ill

    To watch you swim away
    Swimming upstream at that
    I watch you night and day
    Don’t want you eaten by a cat

    Come spring you will be free
    With quiver full of arrows
    Oh my mighty warrior
    Watch out for those narrows

    It’s snowing on the hillside
    Nights becoming longer
    I’ll be waiting with the crocus
    Til you become stronger

  6. Taylor Graham


    Sometimes it’s the logical solution.

    These prints meander down a sandy wash,
    mantrackers follow broken twigs of creosote
    to a rocky ledge overlooking sunset.
    No footprints lead away, no scuff or shine
    by morning slant of sun or flashlight under stars.
    The dogs bring us to the same bare spot,
    and lose the scent. We search above, below,
    around. There’s no one here.

    Remember that hunter we trailed
    to a forest road, where all sign disappeared?
    Surely an alien ship dropped down
    and snatched him, then delivered him safe
    at home, where he watched our search
    on the evening news.

    UFO’s the only explanation that makes
    any sense at all.

  7. Tyger

    That Muslim

    An otherwise rational friend said
    "I’m not voting for that muslim!"
    without once acknowledging the fact
    that Barack Obama worships
    in a Christian church
    or that Muslims can be
    kind and considerate people
    And he sent me much political hatemail
    about ‘that Muslim’
    Thank goodness, I have
    a ‘delete’ button

  8. Monica Martin

    Beware of wild birds flying in-
    they bring bad luck, even death.

    Soap bars under sheets
    help prevent leg cramps.

    Cut flowers and potted plants
    deprive sick rooms of oxygen.

    There are so many myths
    and superstitions that

    surround homeowners. We’ll
    make some of our own.

    (thanks to for these old wives’ tales!)

  9. Vanessa O'Dwyer

    My Myths

    When I was little
    And dreaming of growing up
    I thought all little girls
    Could dream as I.
    With freedom
    With passion
    And placing stars upon
    The sky.

    When I was in church
    And contemplating god
    I thought all people
    Could worship just as I.
    With freedom
    With judgment
    Looking deeper than
    The eye.

    When I chose profession
    What to do as I grew up
    I thought that every person
    Could choose paths such as I.
    With freedom
    With purpose
    Contributing enhancement
    Across life.

    But then I found
    To my dismay,
    That most men are not free

    That most are denied passion
    That many may not judge
    To them purpose is a farce

    But what I found has blocked this now.
    The common ground I viewed,
    Was that people did not know
    That freedom
    That passion
    Judgment and purpose
    Are simply there and waiting for them
    And things that they can do.

    Vanessa O’Dwyer

  10. Carol



    … and as the earth prepares
    to watch her journey,
    it lines her route with gifts:
    plump seeds, golden leaves,
    agile paws and farewell fanning wings,
    and as she passes by, trees sigh,
    and finally let loose the effort of upholding
    the beauty her presence demands.

  11. Rodney C. Walmer

    Myths about Poets

    Whoever said poets are lazy
    is a man who must be crazy
    poets word harder to write
    with less success
    rushing to mail each entry
    hoping someone will bite
    often just feeling empty
    after staying up all night
    with a container of trash
    each new poem
    just feels like a rehash
    of something already written
    always looking for the
    words of a best selling poem unwritten

    A poet is always on the lookout
    for anything new to write about
    Poets are not lazy
    though often we might feel a bit hazy
    but, for the most part
    poets are over achievers
    who cherish their art
    firm believers
    who write from the heart
    never thinking of the money
    nor, landing on some chart
    some poets are funny
    others are sad, and apart
    staying away from society as a whole
    writing each new poem is their only goal
    something he’d continue to his last breath
    perhaps even to his death
    To a poet, his poem is his very soul. . .

    ©Rodney C. Walmer 11/08/08 myth poem. Certainly one of my worst works, but it’s a poem and
    I am behind.

  12. Margaret Fieland

    History Class

    I didn’t know my history.
    I had to check it out,
    read the encyclopedia,
    learn all I could about

    Christopher Columbus
    and those who wailed the sea,
    what happened to the Mayflower
    and Plymouth Colony,

    check out the revolution,
    read about the civil war.
    One thing led to another;
    I kept on reading more.

    What seemed so dull in history class
    was now, oh, so exciting,
    and so I wrote it all on down.
    I hope it seems inviting,

    so maybe when you sit in class
    your mind’s not on vacation,
    and when you’re big you’ll know about
    the history of this nation.

  13. SaraV

    Okay, a line got left in that shouldn’t have, here’s the correct version

    Golden Eggs

    Aesop told the story
    But Egypt had it too
    And the Grimm’s also used it
    But none of it is true
    My geese eat well
    Like kings and queens
    On whole grains and freshest greens
    But not once have I ever seen
    Them lay an egg with a golden sheen

  14. SaraV

    Golden Eggs

    Aesop told the story
    But Egypt had it too
    And the Grimm’s also used it
    But none of it is true
    My geese eat well
    Like kings and queens
    On whole grains and freshest greens
    But not once have I ever seen
    Them lay an egg with a golden sheen
    At least

  15. k weber

    the youngest

    everything hand-
    built: the personal
    touch, the labor
    of giving
    to everyone
    else’s ideas

    selfless, your
    creative fire
    burns wild
    and warm through
    the bloodline; two
    daughters left

    the hostess
    and father, brother
    sister, master
    of ceremonies, there
    would not be
    a holiday
    if not
    for you

  16. Juanita Snyder

    Big Foot, interrupted
    by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

    matted grass, twisted branches,
    a peculiar stench so rude it leaves clumps
    of dark brown hair around trunks of saplings
    as if they were sink rings to be picked up after;
    “what are we, their mothers?!”
    we laugh nervously, watching embers from our
    fire rise to the night sky above us.
    No shortage of rain these past few days
    has been hard on the entire expedition,
    and the sudden eerie scream in the dead of night,
    the type that sets the dogs off and makes you
    feel under the pillow again for your gloc
    doesn’t help. But that’s Oregon for ya.
    Yeti, Yayoo, Skunk Ape or Sasquatch,
    we’ve come to this magical volcanic place to hunt
    eight foot by six-hundred pound no-necks
    covered in fur with small peaked heads and giant
    tracks camouflaged by deer fern & castings of plaster.
    But thus far the only chance meetings have been
    elk, cougar, bear, bobcat, and coyote
    in place of any half human half ape-like creature.
    Years of reports continue to trickle in from
    the outer calderas surrounding the Pacific NW,
    hunters, gatherers and hikers all claiming encounter,
    blurry images caught on film stomping through brush,
    grunts & tree knocks recorded for prosperity,
    others hesitant to come forward lest they be ridiculed.
    So investigators continue to dog the beast,
    traverse thick underbrush and ravines of jagged
    fir, cedar, and spruce silhouettes,
    using sophisticated technology from infrared cameras
    to DNA-retrieving dart guns, seismic sensors,
    and night vision, reputations right on the line for
    proof – dead or alive just to thicken the ranks.

  17. Terri French

    I open my mouth to curse you
    and poetry spews out

    Balling up my fist,
    pulling back then striking out
    I connect with your jaw
    and a bouquet of flowers
    springs out of your head

    You put the flowers in a vase
    and start to sing

    I feel the blood dripping
    from the corner of my mouth
    and an ugly bruise begins to bloom
    across my knuckles

  18. Rachel

    I’m posting this again with slight changes. Like I said I was running out earlier and didn’t have time to revise. I found not only typos but a couple of probs. But here it is again. Thanks for your comments everyone.

    The Fourth Watch

    This lake
    living far below the sea,
    is the ambition of nature,
    a fertile ground giving life
    and livelihood to
    all who are born into it.
    It was the perfect climate
    to give rise to myths and legends…
    but this is no myth.

    We gathered round for evening prayer
    and boarded the wooden craft
    upon a surface glistening
    a silver path to Capernaum.
    The silence reflected in our minds eye
    the hours spent
    shepherding crowds of lost sheep
    and mourning the baptist
    whose blood still runs through
    the heart of the Jordan
    into this lake.

    It was the fourth watch.

    It was the fourth watch when
    down from the eastern heights,
    funneling through the valleys of the hill country,
    the rushing squall met us.
    And soon we were straining at the oars
    begging for forgiveness,
    one passenger short –
    the One we left on the mountainside to pray,
    the One who fed us
    and thousands more this day.
    I could not understand, but now I know.

    Fighting the ten foot waves,
    losing the battle,
    I tossed my oar to the charging wind,
    and spied a shadow appearing steadily,
    across the waves
    towards us
    and into the boat
    that had reached its destination
    on a calm silvery lake.

    He will come again during the fourth watch
    when the sun will be darkened and the moon
    will not give it’s light.
    At that time, His sign will appear in the sky,
    and begin to shake everything out,
    as it did that night.

  19. kate


    His wolf is voracious
    and most of the time mad at me
    his wolf wants it now
    and howls if made to wait
    his wolf is contrary
    and might tip the food in the bin
    his wolf is indignant
    and never ever wrong
    his wolf defies any attempt
    to tame him and sulks at the bars.
    I am battling to banish his wolf
    to Outer Mongolia
    or perhaps Pluto.

  20. Shann Palmer


    Measure the jut of chins,
    elbow cricks, hip slant,
    our complicated geometry.

    We are New Jerusalem,
    funny Valentines,
    pearls to be treasured.

    Begun as grains of sand
    rubbed hard, together we
    emerge on foreign ground.

    Irreconcilable distraction,
    my love, body and soul
    motion disorderly and true

    light dims as day expires, soon,
    we’ll turn back to back in sleep.

  21. Kate Berne Miller


    Long Ago, When the Animals Talked

    Outside my window the whole world is in constant
    conversation: the shush shush of the rain on the grass,
    the spring peepers’ song swelling up from the ponds,
    morse code of fireflys stuttering through the dusk,
    coyote’s volley of yips and barks echoing at dawn.

    Yet daily we stumble over words, say the wrong thing,
    speak before we think, bluster out excuses, spread mean-
    spirited gossip, tell outright lies, fail to say what we mean,
    forget to voice what’s most important until it is too late,
    it is only we humans who are speechless, inarticulate.

    Kate Berne Miller

  22. Judy Roney

    Get Over It

    You have to get over this
    let go
    I’m told
    but I will never let go
    of my son
    love only grows
    after death

    memories sustain
    as I adapt
    to a new relationship
    beyond the grave
    incorporate his death
    into my life
    adapt to the loss
    learn to love life again
    find joy
    establish new traditions
    move on to a new existence

    but get over this
    not in my lifetime.

  23. Jolanta Laurinaitis

    I found this one hard as there are SO many different legends with differing views about dragonflies… so I wrote 2 from 2 different perspectives. Also wrote one on my joint theme ‘character’ Gaia (or Earth).

    The Legend of Adderbolt

    Two children in India
    Eyes open slowly
    And they awake with fear.

    No presence of life

    Where are you Mama?
    Where are you Papa?

    They are forgotten.

    The hunger pains brew
    He holds his sister close
    And coos her to comfort
    She sniffles and quietly cries
    The pain in her tummy too much
    Too much, too much, too much

    He desperately gazes
    At his surroundings
    But moldy corn and
    The old sleeping grasses

    He binds it together and creates
    A winged creature of his imagining
    That she holds close and flies about
    And forgets her pain

    The children awake
    Amazed one morning to find
    That the winged toy
    Hovering, and gliding through the air
    Delighting in its shimmering beauty
    Happily distracted in the sunlight

    But as night falls,
    Sadness and loneliness prevail
    Wishing for their return

    Where are you Mama?
    Where are you Papa?

    The creature pains for the children
    And flutters to the land of the gods
    Pleading the children’s fears and wishes
    The gods of above
    Send teachings of endurance
    With the delicate insect

    Adderbolt was then named,
    A beautiful insect messenger
    To and from the Gods
    Carrying each spirit to be reunited
    With their makers

    Adderbolt is given the name

    The Devil’s Darning Needle

    Don’t sleep
    Be not dozing
    Think naught of slumber
    By the old running stream
    On a summer’s eve
    For the Devil’s Darning Needle
    Shall seek you out
    And whilst you breathe in
    The dreams of the universe,
    The spindle body
    Will weave its devils magic
    Through the lids of which you close
    Sewing its dark thread
    So that you may never again
    Wake with your eyes able
    To gaze at the beauty
    That Gaia bequeaths unto man

    The Love of Gaia

    Chaos prevails
    From which a beautiful
    Goddess emerges
    A Goddess of life, death
    Fertility and hope
    Rising with mountains
    Exquisite flora
    Inquisitve fauna
    Benevolent brooks
    A Goddess that loves
    And provides altruistic
    Love, liberty and pleasure
    To all her children
    A Goddess
    Who selflessly bears
    The abhorrent burden
    Of mistreatment
    A Goddess

  24. SusanB


    Ganesh my pet
    Sits atop a little mouse
    Obviously not afraid
    And never forgets
    A hard worker is he
    Mover of mankind
    Modest and a good leader
    Lends a theme to life
    That’s worthy

  25. Rachel

    Earl, thank you so much… that is so encouraging! I’ve actually taken to doing some research before writing.. who knew that would could be good? LOL.
    I look for yours too.

    I’ve noticed that if you wait too long to post your item the page times out and that is why your comment doesn’t appear. It will still be in the box however, so just scroll down and type in the new code and voila!

    This always happens to me since I compose my poem in the comment box!

  26. Ronda Eller

    vii. tragic moment

    winched in an eternity
    of falling, my stomach
    turns to knotting nooses
    that reach out trying to
    lasso a cloud, a ledge,
    a limb, a hand
    that will rescue

    since i cannot find
    the feathers I need
    to use as wings
    for shoring myself
    upon the current.
    I hit bottom.

    i meet the tragic moment
    will i see death
    before my body knows
    my mind has passed?

    in all, i cannot say
    such pitted dreams
    have ever
    gone and done
    me in.

    ~ Ronda Eller 7nov2008

  27. Nancy Posey

    I’ve been on a train all day bound for D.C. Here are two from me:

    Which came first, the myths or their
    images scattered across the night sky?
    Did shepherds, gazing up at stars,
    spin tales to fill their empty nights,
    then pass them off as truths? Did
    sons searching for answers take
    them at their word? Rocking
    a disconsolate babe, some mother
    may have pointed skyward,
    See that brightest star? she’s ask,
    tracing a line from head
    to shoulder, down to the belt
    girding a strong man’s loins.
    Keep an eye in that direction,
    and someday when you ask me
    where your father’s gone, we’ll
    find him there, guarding us both
    with his fearsome shaft and shield.

    The Origin of Modern Myths

    We never exactly knew anyone
    who had fallen victim to the
    dreaded electric paddle in the
    principal’s office, but we never
    doubt it existed. We could
    all attest to its appearance, the
    exact dimensions, right down
    to the hole bored in the end,
    meant to raise blisters to outlast
    the voltage. We knew, too,
    what happened to those kids
    who simply disappeared, the bad
    ones not like us at all: We learned
    they’d been sent off to reform
    school with other budding
    criminals, forced to dig holes
    then fill them up again, then
    to return to barracks where
    they were force fed pre-algebra,
    Dickens, and World Civ. And
    though we had no evidence,
    we’ve knew what happened
    to Miss Mills: Just one year
    into teaching, she lost her
    third-grade job for sporting her
    bikini at the public pool. None
    of these details appeared in the
    Flashlight, our school paper
    and the PTA had never said
    a word. The news came to us
    furtively, passed hand to hand,
    on notebook paper, folded into
    football shapes.

    Nancy Posey

  28. Kateri Woody

    Athena Joker

    Motherless I sprung from the acidic depths,
    fully formed into a piece of art
    so complete in my own deformed way
    that it brought tears of mirth to my stinging eyes –
    You, oh mighty Zeus replica,
    swathed in a black and gray kevlar toga
    a powerful figure that looms forever
    over me like a paternal shadow with the same rights
    as the Daddy of all things (gloomy and grim)
    not to mention you are the sapling from which
    all we depraved minds have fallen from,
    your adulterous ways bearing fruit
    in the form of me – your greatest feat,
    your smartest foe, I your prodigal daughter
    (err son) among others as gaudily robed
    and nearly as mentally unstable…
    You bore me life, and though I am thankful,
    I must go my own route – to prove traitorous
    at times, but ultimately, Daddy-Bats,
    you have my fullest love.

  29. S.E.Ingraham

    The Myth of the Sound

    They cut funding, closed group homes, turned them out
    Like empty pockets, as if, like loose change, people
    Could roll into the cracks of places, settle easily
    Disappear from view, never to be seen again…

    As with many of those without voices, they quickly
    Dispersed, grew confused, blended into the street scene
    Became one with the greater number – the homeless
    Soon became almost indistinguishable from their brethren

    Politicians congratulated each other roundly on a job well done
    Money saved, budgets revised, if not actually balanced
    Looked for more ways to change the unwell to the forgotten
    Get the forgotten to forget who or if they had ever even been

    The best trick of all, was the sleight-of-hand; after all
    All those crazies, under measured control of course,
    most with jobs
    Numbering in the hundreds at least, being carefully supervised
    Living somewhat independently, taking their medication,
    just gone.

    The story was, they’d all become cured, they’d all become sane
    Didn’t need their housing anymore, had their own places now
    No need for medication or doctors, no needed supervision either
    Being of sound mind and body, they had no needs,no needs at all.

  30. Sara McNulty

    Another Perspective

    Yellow is not the color
    of insanity, unless the sun
    is insane
    Blue is not a sad shade,
    unless you are a Monster
    of the night and fear
    blue skies
    Green is not a condition
    of envy, for who indeed
    would a lush lawn
    Purple is not solely
    for royalty, wizardry,
    or psychic’s quarters
    where fortunes are
    told. Would that it
    were–purple is
    my favorite color.

  31. Cher Holt-Fortin

    Achilles had it right.
    Better to be a farmer breaking clods
    than rule among the dead.
    On the other hand, Lord,
    there are a few things

    First I’d like to know my dog was happy.
    OK if Heaven is all that great, maybe I won’t need her.
    But it feels bad, to think about that.
    I am not expecting TV or radio. Maybe some
    good music. Reunion, yes. I have folk I want to talk with.
    And a number that I don’t want to see.
    Even if they want to see me.
    By the time I get there, I’ll feel differently.

    I don’t do pink, by the way. Or wings. And I
    am not musical. Nope.
    I want tea, rose petal jam,
    everyone I’ve ever loved,
    long talks, understanding,

  32. jared david

    Bruce- great poem

    –with Halloween and the elections recently passing, i’ve been itching to get something out.

    Robert- thanks for giving us this prompt and providing an outlet.

    (no title yet)

    Every ten-year-old is afraid
    of ghosts and monsters,
    because they don’t know any better.
    And teens shudder at urban legends,
    even when they know they never happened.
    But eventually, people see how silly
    all these crazy stories are,
    and outgrow the effects of folklore.

    Now that I have grown up,
    its time to dispel the myths;
    demons do exist, but not like the
    campfire tales we hid from as kids,
    and no amount of covers can save us
    from them—

    Spooks in sheets are scary things,
    but spooks in black suits who snoop
    and defy our liberties are what really
    frighten me.

    Frankenstein’s beast, with pieces
    of every poor soul beneath a headstone
    had no chance at being loved.
    But at least he didn’t try to hide
    from the citizen’s cries,
    like the lies and shady deals
    intertwined in every collaborative
    Congressional bill.

    Dracula, with no soul,
    survives on the lifeblood
    of others, while dining in his
    castle all alone.
    With resigned honor he reigned,
    unlike the vampIRS of
    today, who choose to live
    on what runs through our veins.

    You’ll run out of breath,
    trying to summon Bloody Mary
    from the mirror; nothing appears
    when you call there, no matter
    how many times you stand
    in the dark and whisper,
    “Medicare, Medicare, Medicare….”

    Haunted houses have hundreds of years
    of terror in their walls.
    But the Houses today boast only
    Fifty-five and Sixty—average age;
    those numbers make my skin crawl.

    Some myths, even still, are
    supported by the powers on the Hill.
    They even commissioned the
    Department of Ignorance,
    to keep us off their trail.
    And to feed Cerberus,
    the Three-Headed mutt,
    entrusted to guard the River Potomac,
    so no one can crack the mask
    that hides truth, and lies,
    all at the same time.
    You’d think their resources could
    afford a more convincing disguise.

    I was that kid, afraid of many things
    that go ‘bump’ in the night.
    And still am, sometimes,
    lying alone in bed without a light.
    But if someone asks,
    “Are You Afraid of the Dark?”
    I’ll say, “I am, but only
    when I’m watching C-SPAN.

  33. Jane penland hoover

    Shadowland Escape

    The story:

    There is a land beyond this time
    where only shade and shadow go
    resigned forever long to pine
    brood in deep dimness
    a sacrifice
    persuades some dark god
    to cease obscuring light,
    silencing all laughter.

    But listen:

    The secret to release,
    to perceive the light you know,
    escape the desert longing
    going on and on,
    is to gather in that brooding
    hold it close, and tighter still,
    shed tears rich and thick enough
    to soften any ancient nights —
    then turn to face dawn rising
    casting shadows low, and mystery.

    Jane Penland Hoover
    PAD 7
    November 7, 2008