I’m working on the Mother Grove Solstice ritual and ran across this poem. I’m not much of a poet, in spite of my name, but sometimes I can’t resist. So, here’s this–
Seasoning
By Byron Ballard
I peel the myth away,
smelling the acid in the air,
feeling the oily leavings of the peel.
It is easy—the work of a moment.
They lie in my open palm,
the segments of story and lore
that guide the culture’s heart
into this
darkening season.
I poke the cold segments with my fingernail
and see here a Baby move
there a Winter Queen
yonder the oak and holly fret
as my Ancestors cut the sycophant mistletoe from
the tender apple branches.
In the middle of this mess of legend
there lies a curled and spiky ball.
When it is gently prodded, it
kicks free of the sickly sweet pieces
and shows itself to be a star.
The star.
Not only in the East but certainly now
returning there.
The star.
Leading us into ourselves and out again.
Dancing the carol.
The star of wonder. The star of renewal.
Sol Invictus!
The reason, long-known and sometimes forgotten,
For the season.
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