April’s Moon

April’s moon
has toppled the Lords of Misrule,
making rutting Fools of them.

The night breeze
pulsing with pond songs,
rain-washed, blossom-scented,

Sets the rhythm.
Caterpillar-laden branches dance careless
in the silver-dusted night

the ruthless passions of argent Eostre,
the fierce advent of Spring.

Her hunger
forgotten in a glut of eggs and hares,
sated by the sacred feast,

The Crone
veils herself in emerald mists
and diamond stars

And rises
from the dead of Winter
a ravenous, ravishing beauty;

Not reborn,
but resurrected – and there Spring’s Mystery,
writ in blood and sealed with kisses.

the midnight depths, I cast my woven will
upon the dark sea of the sky,

Drawing down
the moon.  A thousand, thousand pale stars
slip through the web of my intent, but

April’s orb
is caught like a silver trout,
netted between my fingers.

2 thoughts on “April’s Moon”

  1. Very nice.

    I’d prefer “and made” to “making” in the third line, though. Not only because I think it flows better, but I like the thought that the Lords of Misrule have completed the process of being made into fools, and it’s a done deal, no salvaging any scrap of dignity at the last moment.



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