Over, under, twist, repeat.
The corn dolly takes shape in my hands. A simple wreath, as I do not have my late mother’s skill. Last year’s dolly fell apart; the corn spirit had nowhere to live over winter. We ploughed the stalks into the first furrow anyway. The crops failed. This winter will hurt.
Ouch.
A stray end of stalk pricks the pad of my thumb. I pull it out and a bright red drop of blood rises to the surface. I smear it on the wreath.
Maybe it will entice the corn spirit to return.
Maybe it won’t matter.
The corn dolly takes shape in my hands. A simple wreath, as I do not have my late mother’s skill. Last year’s dolly fell apart; the corn spirit had nowhere to live over winter. We ploughed the stalks into the first furrow anyway. The crops failed. This winter will hurt.
Ouch.
A stray end of stalk pricks the pad of my thumb. I pull it out and a bright red drop of blood rises to the surface. I smear it on the wreath.
Maybe it will entice the corn spirit to return.
Maybe it won’t matter.
