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.
The Fairest Month
At what season is Mabh—our beloved Earth—at her fairest?
Well, of course she has her beauties in every season, but many would say “in May.”
You'd have to be dead not to feel it. (Or maybe not: who knows what the dead can feel?) See the young green of the new leaves springing, the fresh yellow-green that you'll never see at any other time of year. Smell the bewitching fragrance of the blooming trees, with their promise of deliciousness to come. Hear the courtship songs of the birds. Feel the wind on your face: warm now, unbelievably. Savor the tang of the oniony wild ramp, the morel's earthy meatiness.
All this, with—savor it—no mosquitoes.
All winter long, we've been closed in with the stinks and discomforts of winter, with never a lick of privacy to be had.
Come, love, take my hand: let's away to the woods, to gather the joys of May.
We'll tell them we're hunting morels.
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