Mokosh
the moist mother, spinner of fates
earthMokosh walks the fields at night, spinning the unspun thread of every life; to dream of her is to feel the loose ends of your own story tugged gently, and to be asked to let her finish the weaving.
Fragments
She is the wet black soil and the well and the woman's work, older than the gods who name her, and the wheat bows low where her damp hem has passed.
Leave your distaff untended on a holy night and by morning the thread is spun, still warm, though no hand but hers has touched the wheel.
spindleearthfatethreadwomen