Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
Finding Spring
When we enter the temple, she is gone.
We light from the altar fire and go out to look for her. Up and down we look. Everywhere we see signs of her, and these we gather into baskets; but she herself is nowhere.
We regather. There is only one place she can be. With our fire, we descend.
We walk the winding ways of below. Even here we do not find her.
We enter darkness. In darkness, even fire dies.
While we wait, we sing. In darkness, it ends and begins.
We join hands and lead each other out. We come to a door. We knock. Three times we knock.
The door swings open: light, color, fragrance. She is here!
My eyes fill with her. I cannot seem to look at her enough.
We cheer. We sing to her. We light from her fire.
With flowers, lights, and baskets of eggs, we bear her up and back.
We begin.
Now the green blade riseth from the buried grain:
wheat that in the deep Earth many days hath lain.
Love lives again, that with the dead hath been:
Love is come again, like wheat that springeth green.
Photo: Katya Trischuk
Egg: Katya Trischuk
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