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Thoughts of Beltaine
27 April 1997. As Mayday approaches ... I spend some tyme thinking of Him. Lovemaking, and perchance in most forms, love must be so alien to him. He walks the woods as the God of Death, the Harvester. His lifetyme is so short .... and yet his thoughts and mind must be as old as the Groves and Mountains he tends. He is silent ... perchance melencholy. Strong, young/old, deliberate .... he is nurturer by way of pruner. She comes to him as maiden. Free, wild, independent and sexual. She is fluid, flashing, moving. She is passion and fire. She is young, beautiful .... dancing, sprinting, fighting. What must he feel when he first comes to her? Confusion? She is something he has never encountered before. He takes her in his strong arms to protect her, just as he protects rabbits from the prying eyes and powerful jaws of prowling wolves. --But she doesn't need his protection. How utterly shocked and confused he must feel as she reaches up and pulls his virgin lips down to hers ... How intoxicated he must be from that sweetest of wines .... and how lost must he get in those eyes as she pulls him down into the grasses. I can imagine the terror he must feel as he lets her strip away wall after wall ... barrier after barrier .... He is no longer the force which pushes earth together to form mountains .... He is a brittle leaf riding a wind which he fears will destroy him ... but a wind he wouldn't stop even if the power were in his hands. He gives up the only thing he has to give as she flows over him like sweet honey .... he gives up himself. And afterwards ... how safe he must feel ... his head lying on her breasts ... his body held in her arms, protecting him ... just as he protected rabbits from the prying eyes and powerful jaws of prowling wolves. And I can imagine the love he must feel when she smiles at him and wipes the tears from his cheek. Questing Rat |