And what are those skills

sitting,

unkempt, ignored, without mastery,

in the ashes

much as you’d like to abandon them there?

Only your gifts, the spells and support

needed, castable with no other’s voice or hands,

the workings for which you were born to suffer

and give.

Step, rich and slow, into your place.

A gyre of vultures, forty strong,

turns ’round at the base of the mountain

pushing remembrance of how small

you’ve been playing it, and

how large you now must be.