Blossom, buds and garlands. Pale girl with flowers in her hair. Stately, solemn: Queen for the day. Dancing weavers pattern the pole - not Priapus but axis mundi: lightning rod for joy. Timeless as a village green. The countryside teeters – winter’s peril endured: harvest hope barely a-bud. Today relief and glee sit for a drink. Join them. Run your finger through the ashes, draw that line from the meadow to your feast. Feel each season’s turn in your belly, pivoting as the world hums, laden, bleating. May beats a new rhythm – do you know what cavorts through our flames tonight?
