May Spathe
--with Melody Lewis

Beneath the mud we feel the call of spring:
the lonely dead you buried just last year.
Songs press against our throats and draw us up
to mouth orisons to remembered sun.

The lonely dead you buried just last year,
summoned to life, are freed from loveless ice
to mouth orisons. To remembered sun
we climb, drawn by increasing light and heat.

Summoned to life, and freed from loveless ice
as Cro-Magnon bodies pulled from glacier's hold,
we climb, drawn by increasing light and heat,
ecstatic waxwings melting with desire.

As Cro-Magnon bodies, pulled from glacier's hold,
hazard the world of change, we seek the heights,
ecstatic wax wings melting. With desire
that draws and drives, restores and risks, we soar.

Hazarding worlds of change, we seek the heights.
Will they be worth the depths to which we plunge?
Those draws and drives, restores and risks! We sore
souls return, spinning through voided space.

Which trial is worse—the depths to which we plunge
or heights reached at the cost of all we're worth?
Our souls return, spinning through voided space
on cosmic spirals, paths with endless loops

past heights reached at the cost of falls. We're worth
our pay; we play our parts: dramatic dreamers.
Through cosmic spirals, dance of endless loops,
Oestera turns and Beltane fires begin.

We play; so pay our parts dramatic, dreamers
owing our roles to cosmic cycle's acts.
Oestera turns. Let Beltane fires begin,
quicken to life the future-bearing egg.

Who owns our roles? Two cosmic cycles act
in concert, all as one, and one in all.
Quickened to life, the future pips the egg,
a gift held loosely in the May Queen's hand.

In concert all, at one, for we hold all,
songs press against our throats and draw us up.
Our lives held loosely in the May Queen's hand,
beneath our mud, we feel Her call of spring.