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.
Whenever You Find It
Putting up the Samhain lights yesterday, I found an egg that had lain undiscovered since our egg-hunt last spring Evenday.
Not to worry: it was a plastic egg. (For just this reason, we don't hide the real ones.) Orange plastic, in fact, with a black dragonfly embossed on it.
Interesting, that.
Rattling around inside, like the yolk of a dried-out old pysanka, was a chocolate-covered malted milk ball.
I ate it, of course. A little oxidized, maybe, but for a moment, I closed my eyes and savored the sweetness anyway.
The trees are wearing their autumn gold; the ground is carpeted in yellow. Samhain is coming.
But after Winter, Spring.
And Spring is sweet, whenever you find it.
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This is lovely.