Twelve women, and the goddess makes thirteen.

We sit weaving in our dream wheel,

   between the spokes of twine and yarn.

The lines of the weavings we have made

Radiating from the center pole.

The center pole points to the center of the universe.

"Our Circle"

 

We wpmen sit weaving

Weaving as we sing.

Weaving as we chant.

Weaving as we tell our signs and stories.

Going round the circle,

Round, round, round

As we weave, weave,

Tie

Knot

Circle

Women

Weaving, each a net to catch

Her dreams

Her life

Her self

Our vision for the earth.

 

We stand between the spokes, hands held,

Each casting the circle in her own way.

Some call on the elements, the directions, the spirits,

   the worlds—in the time—old witches' way.

Another casts a kiss around the circle, a kiss traveling

   from sister to sister.

One sings, "Make me strong

         Keep me weak,

         Make me fierce,

         Keep me gentle."

The next dances around the circle. "Dance, Deborah, dance,"

I whisper, as you dance out your anger and frustration

with pretty things.

We say words, "Star light, star bright

                First star I see tonight

                I wish I may, wish I might,

                Live this dream I dream tonight."

Lying in our bedrolls

Our weavings suspended in the air above each of us—

   a new maypole, a dream-woven one.

We go to sleep, grown papooses in cradles,

each mother to herself, and to us all.

Long after sleep, I keep popping up to look

at my weaving hovering above my belly,

So excited to see it there,

And the stars beyond.