Lughnaghsadh!
Six weeks have passed since the Sun
reached its peak from our earthsome
viewpoint. Already, the days feel so much
shorter than before. Try as some might to avoid it
Autumn has announced her timely arrival
on the shores of our Augusted consciousness.
If we let our eyes but see, the ants and squirrels
busy themselves with their preparations
for winter’s onslaught, much as our ancestors
did at one time (and our descendants no
doubt will take up again, contemporary
Grasshoppery notwithstanding). Sitting
underneath this wise Standing Person
in the midst of Albanian Washington Park
I trust in the mother of us all, this Gaia
that supports my very life, the one without
of which I am but atoms and particles
that would circulate in space without tether.
Pleromic unification around divine spark
but holds all threads together, embodied fragile
as this hirsute poet desirous of shucking
off the shorts in addition to shirt and sandals.
Our beknighted scientists, near-sighted Gnostics
of ego, have formally arbitrated that the former
midpoints, those equinox and solstice brethren,
were actually seasons’ beginnings. To differ
I beg. For really there are eight seasons,
and the one in which we are now infounded
has a strange Celtic name that looks unutterable.
Lughnaghsadh it is called, for a celebration
of the sun god Lugh. This fire festival of yore
serves to mark the initial harvests of the fields
and calls us to gather in what we have reaped
on our way to the midpoint of Mabon, fall’s
day with its equal night. Oh, it is a sweet
time of year, as the corn itself brings out
its sugar and crafts such delicious starches.
Soon the butternuts, acorns and sweet dumpling
squashes will be making their market debuts.
And I sing a song for cooling skies to become
commonplace come September, indeed the favored
turn of the wheel of the year. I smile blessings
outward to all. Happy Lughnaghsadh, one and all.
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