The deer woman

/ 5AM on the trails. The Deer Woman. faeries or fae Deer dash — signaling a change in direction. Dream cycles — two women. One older, one younger. The eldest — secure, seductive. The youngest — a bit more apprehensive. Predator and protector. The arrows — deer marked on the side of the road, orange. Ingest the game. A rite of passage. The herbs that heal. Dittany — for the wounded warrior. The huntress appears. Sensing the lion’s sight. Ingesting the herb Rue Italy’s verb — do /

The story unfolds as follows…

In the hour before dawn breaks its vow, When mist still clings to ancient bough, A wanderer walked the trails alone— Five AM, where wild things roam.

She came to me in doubled form, Morganthea—both tempest and warm, An ex-colleague from the waking world, But here in dream, her truth unfurled.

Two women stood where one had been: The elder—draped in silver sheen, Secure and seductive, eyes like wine, Drawing forth what I’d kept confined.

The younger—trembling at the edge, Apprehensive on the wooded ledge, Both predator and protector worn, Both huntress and the fawn newborn.

I woke with words upon my tongue: “The Deer Woman”—ancient, sung By those who walk between the veils, Where fairy folk leave glowing trails.

The Shaman’s Cipher

Three books fell into seeking hands— Two of shamans, spirit lands, One of architecture’s sacred art, Each a map, each a chart.

They led me not to mortar-stone But to a seer, dwelling alone: A shaman keeper of the deer, Who speaks what urban souls can’t hear.

“Check his Instagram,” the voice commanded clear, And there—posted one day prior—appeared A stag with antlers crowned in frost, A sign for those who would be lost.

The deer-dash on the trail that morn— A sudden shift, direction torn, Not flight but signal, ancient code: Your path diverges from this road.

The Lion’s Rue

But first, the lion’s golden eye, That sees through earth and star-swept sky, Required the herb of second sight— Rue, Italia’s ancient rite.

TikTok’s algorithm, modern oracle’s call, Led me to a cohort, creative sprawl— An invitation to Italia’s shore, Though fate would close that distant door.

Yet rue remained, the bitter flower, That grants the artist vision’s power: Two masters of the brush and pen Had used its essence, now and then.

I saw it in the lion’s gaze— A shimmer through the purple haze, The ability to pierce the veil, To read the symbols in the tale.

Morganthea’s younger self appeared: “This path you walk is one you’ve feared, Four years we’ve circled, you and I, Two orbits waiting to align.”