Myrtle Dance

The night before the full
moon, I make plans. A 
Beltane fire will be lit, wine,
the remembrance of
the light within and
a solemn bow to all that 
grows and causes
growth.

I will journal and cut
cords, chant harm ye
none under my breath,
simmer cinnamon and
cloves, rosemary and orange
in a cast iron pot to
invoke health, prosperity,
and all goodness.

I will sing to the moon, 
inviting the crepe myrtles I 
prune and water 
during the day to 
recognize me in this 
new light. I will get
tipsy on the wine, perhaps
even dance round the 
myrtles believing they
dance with me.

I will charge my crystals
and myself under the light 
of the grandmother.
The dewy night will feel
strange on my skin until
I remember I belong to it.

My wife looks up from her
iPad just long enough
to remind me that our
godson’s birthday dinner is
tomorrow night.  

The wine will save.
The moon will understand. 

The myrtles may still dance though.