WALPURGIS NIGHT
The sunlight is brazen now,
swooping down in clumps to burn
and singe the Earth, touching things
and leaving marks of recognition.
Shadows weave between objects, faulting
or caressing shapes around themselves. Yet,
(they say), this is what life is comprised of :
images with echoes, lines amongst other
lines, everything forming something.
-
The last night of April somehow celebrates
itself : sticks of trees now rich with membrane'd
hair, hillsides in a reverent bowing comb themselves
for spirits wont to come and stay. New houses,
everything has. The whole wide universe is new.
-
Let us celebrate too.
Ourselves: inchoate, jumbled,
massed like new leaves upon old
branches, sticking together, made wet by
the Spring waters. It is more than mind
or attitude - more than everything which
combines to make it. Axis of holiness, the
explosion of bloom, hooligan night, crazed
spectacle of jubilation. The ghosts and the
demons dance alike. This is Walpurgis Night.
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