Beltane

The rains have come
the snow's cold is over.
Thunder is heard again in the high places.
A great horned owl
was seen in a fir tree in a backyard.

And in the slit between water and sky
light passions to mauve
and all those embarrassing colors of desire.
The long branches breathe down into the water
and their reflection
reaches up, prolonging the longing.

It is the story of losing and finding
in the rising of the riverskin,
where you discover that everything feels like you
and nothing, no one is, and you want it all again.

Through a layered lace of leaves,
Byzantine bees promise a sweet sting, if you come.
The pecking bird of blood red
drums fire into the joins of trees,
felt druid deep in the undersidal
blur of the mushroom decapped.
You rise wet from a lilac haze,
and slip on green dreams of grass
rubbing the marks in, not out.