Now is the season of the summer king. Every day lately, the sky has felt like a celebration. The earth has clothed herself in flowers for him, for she is his priestess and his wife (I do not say his queen, for she is queen in her own right, although he is her king.) I stand between them and feel luscious and warm with their love.
As a new moon rises into Beltane, and the young King takes his golden crown, I feel joyous, as if my heart dances even while I sit properly still amongst the sensible people. I know summer will drain me of it all - joy and strength and creative forces. I will become as pale and dry as the grasses. But that is life, and that is the purpose of the seasons. After summer will come autumn to cool me, to rub away my dryness and break me so I will bud anew. Right now, the King is here with his beautiful smile and stormy eyes and scars and his heart wild for love. And I can not help but skip in the encompassment of that love - that wild-lit storm-wrinkled wide wonderful sky, while beneath me the Old Woman lies sleeping, and from her breath and bones grow dreams to seed a long white summer sky.
from a previous Beltane
and another, earlier
a post about the summer king
Beth Owl's post on Beltane