Tonight, I gathered roses. I plucked all the heads of the dead and dying roses as the gray sky darkened above the trees.... a crone's sky if ever I saw one. There's a full moon somewhere behind all the clouds tonight, but Hecate is the goddess of the Dark Moon. The dark gray blank above my head felt right, somehow, as ashen and dull as the face of a hag.
I carried my roses, white and pink, scarlet and purple, trailing petals, down to the place where the driveway bridges a brook. Whoever built this house had some sense of how energy with a capital E works - one must cross running water at least twice to reach the house. On the bridge, on the driveway, in that place which is neither one place nor another, neither fully earth or air or water, but merely serves as the connecting space between two places, I left my offering of roses.
I stood awhile, offering my intention, listening to the silence. When I was ready to go back to the house, I turned to see the how those loose petals I'd dropped before spread out like a bridal path.