Mother of Wands

She has waited for you in the cold. You have been out late, experimenting. Reading books that are not yours by dim light, arguing with voices, testing each substance for impurities, trying to find the source of the music that keeps you awake. When you return, you brace yourself for her anger. She tells you she loves to wait for you. She stands so bright against the night and the snow. You know the warmth that washes over you is but a faint echo of the deep pleasures of devotion.