Lughnasadh

The first of August.

We follow the curve of the year around and arrive at the season of sticky ice-cream fingers, hot days blasted by monsoon rains, and the smell of mushrooms budding under grass curled like gold-green lashes. Everything is ripe, pendulous, and ready to burst.

Summer’s death is upon us. Autumn waits–the keen harvest knife in its hand–to deliver the blow.

Dance through these suffocating nights until you gasp.

Winter’s siege will arrive soon enough. And the memory of your partner’s face, bright with sweat and passion, will be a comfort during the long frigid nights.