How to speak of it:
the bramble path to the heart,
the wind as it rolls flat all that
grew in the sweet fields of May.
As we cut away the dead branches
small green whiskers grow out
in such unexpected places.
The season of bread and sorrow
fast approaches. Lughnasadh
casts a shadow in the hot and golden
fields of summer, where cicadas thrum.
Unspeakable how, the Moon, as she rises
catches the light of the run away Sun,
who lies hidden beneath the earth.
~ Sarah Fuhro