Solstice Stirs



To all my soft spirit breathers and bark skinned weavers: The summer is fast growing in our bellies like onion weed on rocky cliffs. A burst of green will crack even the most sun hardened rock. All of us have that fox spirit in us, that wild as the windswept field spirit...that spirit who howls in moonlight and yearns to stretch lazily in dew-rich meadows. It's a spirit that scratches holes in us. It burrows and digs mounds in us. It's words are lightning bug flashes and spider weaving dances in us. You cannot contain this spirit of the summer, even if you tried. It starts tiny like soft moss and then like wildfire, it takes over your heart. It burns across our bodies turning all the chaff to ash.

Don't hold back, my Divine Seekers. Let those moments eat you like a moth eaten tent, for they will soon be gone with the turning of the wheel-tide, weathered and floating, a wind blown art lost on the river bed of memory.

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