For Beltane

We are standing on the edge of ecstasy, staring at grass the color of a granny smith apple. Emptying our ears of all other sounds and listening for the buzz of a hummingbird’s wings.

We step between the ragweed on the forest floor and say “hello” to the fledgling leaves waving from above us.

These are the magical days, the threshold of a season that cannot be contained.

We close our eyes and smell lilac on the breeze, unfiltered and raw, mixed with the scent of lightning somewhere miles away.

The mourning doves share their same lonesome song, but now it seems like a lullaby to what is being born into the world.

And all around us, the wildness whispers at us to leave our cautionary tales inside and ride the horses fast, over the hills and into the haunted pines.

This is not a season for being small and unseen, but for boldness and laughter, for dancing to the music of the flute that the goat plays so flawlessly beside the fire.

This is the season for knotted hair and dirty hands and feet, for secret rendezvous with the side of you that is free.

We are only waiting to exhale now, and step across the threshold of beauty unleashed.