Mabon's Call

The harvest moon begins to rise,
Beneath the golden autumn skies.
A time of balance, day and night,
When shadows dance with fading light.

Mabon’s call, a whispered breeze,
That stirs the flame in ancient trees.
The fields are ripe, the fruits are full,
As Earth bestows her sacred pull.

We gather close, the season turns,
The hearth is warm, the fire burns.
In thanks, we reap what we have sown,
In quiet moments, peace is grown.

The leaves now fall, a rustling sigh,
To honor summer's last goodbye.
Yet in the cycle, there’s no end,
For death is but a time to mend.

With humble hearts, we give our praise,
For sun-filled nights and longer days.
As Mabon turns the wheel anew,
We learn to cherish all that’s true.

So raise your cup to autumn’s grace,
To all that time can not erase.
For balance, wisdom, love, and light,
We find our peace in Mabon’s night.