Danielle Dulsky
This full moon sings an old song, an autumn dirge mourning the brighter hours and reminding us to see the strangest beauty in the night. Here, we tend the ancestral altars well, as the chill winds sting our wiser dreams alive. Every windowsill holds a candle lit for a passing ghost. Every evening invites a story be told slowly, whispered tales of bone-women, breadcrumbs, and fallen kings. The cookpots bubble, promising a supper that feeds the hungry soul...