Moonbinding Poem by Micron Jan

Beneath the full moon's silver eye,
Where pine trees lean and shadows lie,
An old woman circles candle flame,
Murmuring stars by their secret name.

Wax drips time onto the ground,
Each flicker holds a waiting sound.
The forest listens, breath held tight,
As night is stitched with threads of light.

She lifts her hands, both scar and kind,
A keeper still of older mind.
No words she speaks are born of fear—
Only what the moon may hear.

Candles bow, the air grows thin,
The spell turns slow, then pulls within.
Not meant to break, not meant to bind,
But to remind the world its spine.

When dawn returns, the woods will keep
What moon and woman swore in sleep.
And if you pass that circle wide,
You'll feel the magic—not see it—hide.