Love #41, Wind-wolves raging
I was young.
We were protected from winter, safe from the wind-wolves raging outside. During those long dark days, we did not leave our farmsteads. Men and women, sitting together in the light of the fires. Eating, praying, loving and playing over the dark months.
In front of the hearth fire, Irish slaves drew whalebone combs through my long hair.
I played checkers and chess with my foster brothers, teasing them as I moved pieces across the patterned wood to thwart or permit their narrow tactics. We spun thread and mended the torn flesh of summer’s toil. We crafted soft cloth. We carved stories of the gods in driftwood and bone.
Then you came and laughed and I learned to dance above the clouds.