Spring Equinox 2011

Spring Equinox 2011 - a reading (on YouTube)

A crow sits atop a signpost, harbinger of the naked power grab occurring in the springtide court. His companion drinks from a muddy, roadside pool. On bolder days, he station-keeps in midair beyond the light pole, battling a strong south wind to a standstill. He tucks his wings, hovers and peels off back to perch before stepping into the wind again. Nearby, his mate calls her prophetically phrased monitions.

No one pays attention to her harshly worded warnings. The madding mob prefers the melodic cooing of mourning doves or onomatopoetic calls of the whippoorwills crying through the night, not recognizing the ominous note of either. Now is the time of the green plague. The last of the old, brown leaves have been discarded, pushed out by the green and new. An orgy of pollen sows confusion through the land. With each unrelenting gust of wind, golden storm clouds gather beneath every oak and pine.

A hawk glides low and silent through the front garden, a dead dove clutched in its talons. As her raptor-sisters patrol above, a woodpecker circles a tree as a shield then abandons her half-constructed nesting hole to return when the skies are clearer. Garden predators prowl unhindered in a triple-witching of instinct, occupation and feigned domestication. Quick, sharp claws lurk beneath their soft gray paws.

At night, two steady stars like uneven eyes, one heavy-lidded, peer back from the dark horizon. The old god and his messenger steal glimpses of their former demesne. The aged face of the winter solstice melts away as her younger sister begins to blossom. Soon, too, her shine will fade and we will flee back into the arms of her jealous, pale white twin. By then, the summer sacrifices will have been gathered, stirring restlessly within the wicker man, certain of their fate.

Behind a screen of purple Persian shields, azaleas bloom pink and white and red. Lavender lantana pop in tiny clusters that form a fuller flower, crawling down the stalks like tiny Roman legions whose whole is accentuated by the congregated discipline of its parts. The first brace of yellow alamanda trumpets the coronation of the radiant maiden-princess who has finally overthrown the cruel ice queen. By Lughnasa, they will blast martial in oppression as she, too, will be named a tyrant and usurper.

Camped in their winter bivouacs before the spring campaign, her green-jacked soldiers share cold coffee and dream of returning home to kiss their wives goodbye. Ignorant that they'll end their days blind and toothless, they still believe their cause is just and their vengeance justified. Until the scales of war tumble from their eyes, they dose in the warmth of the maiden's brilliant smile, blinded by visions of her fast maturing beauty, praying that her brightly colored revolution will never meet its end.

© 2011 Edward P. Morgan III

Lughnasa 2010

Lughnasa 2010 - a reading (on YouTube)

At twilight, the battle rages. In the war between light and darkness, each side gains temporary supremacy only to cede its conquests as the annual cycle marches on.

The sun recedes from its high water mark. The blitzkrieg of Beltane is no longer seen as a benevolent liberator by Lughnasa. Darkness amasses a counterforce set to strike on the equinox. By Samhain, a series of nighttime raids will reoccupy the border strongholds in the empire of the sun, whose string of minor setbacks transforms into a rout.

But the sun remains high and bright this morning, a piercing tyranny of light. Little hides from its unrelenting gaze. Just a softness lingering near the margins, more shade than shadow, sensed but not quite seen. Until darkness swells on the horizon and low clouds grumble their righteous indignation until their indigo anger flashes brilliant white against the despotic summer blues.

At dusk, sunlight melts into the crucible of another day, its molten gold briefly shining through the accumulated dross before staining the horizon a bloody red as it reluctantly yields the field to night.

Storms of yellow twilight bring a gentle rain of lavender flowers, each tiny blossom replaced by another in seemingly inexhaustible clusters. Soon, their colorful numbers will dwindle, unreplenished, as summer's tears wash the fallen into shallow, muddy graves and a chorus of the night sings in requiem.

But tonight, that insurrection is merely in the planning phases, bright lines on a celestial map, shadows gathering behind the garden wall. The lords of light still reign resplendent, while dark princes wait impatiently for their time to rule our terrestrial realm.


© 2010 Edward P. Morgan III

Beltane 2009

Beltane 2009 - a reading (on YouTube)

In darkness there is memory. In shadows, a witness to our reflections. At moonrise the shadows coalesce into the shapes of trees disguised as men, hungry and threatening, their sylvan fingers scratching at the window. In the forest, gathered green men turn their faces eastward to catch a glimpse of the sun king reborn.

The wind whispers colors across the morning sky, telling tales of all the places it has been. A golden fanfare of allamanda echoes off a slate gray ceiling. The sun peers through a fine leaden veil as the wind traces the shadows of her face with a delicate lover's touch. When the veil parts and the morning brightens, new leaves perch upon the branches like hundreds of yellow-green butterflies drying their wings, poised to take flight. Near the moss cloaked statuary, fallen flames of honeysuckle litter the grass like discarded votives at an unnamed shrine.

The morning air has the cool edge of a little used knife scraping slowly against a pale blue stone as the seasons prepare for battle. Summer and winter have once again entered the lists to settle their annual dispute, this time to the death. Two men, one armored in multicolored ribbons with a willow wand, the other armed with only a shield and blackthorn switch. Like ancient rivals at a watering hole, each circles in silence, cautiously waiting for the other to respond. Between the need-fires their melee erupts, and none too swiftly ends. The green man claims the victor's cup, quenching his thirst with honey mead, sweet water from a holy well. The straw man has been scattered, at least for a time. From winter's corpse we sow the embryonic seeds from which the barley king will rise so we may sacrifice him later in the year.

In the west, the sun peers shyly around a pale purple curtain, her face half concealed. She retreats demurely, divergent rays shining outward from radiant eyes behind a gold-lined mask. As we bow to the antlered king, she sets the sky afire in his name, burning a rainbow of amber to apricot, lavender to ash. The last a reminder that deep within the thicket, a wicker man is born, stalking among the roses, and all too soon will be coming home.


© 2009 Edward P. Morgan III

Vernal Equinox 2009

Vernal Equinox 2009 - a reading (on YouTube)

Last night I dreamed I was standing on a knife's edge, a precipice. On one side lay darkness, on the other, brilliant light. The division between the two was so sharp it could draw blood. I stood on a narrow threshold, slightly dizzy, longing to embrace the light but fearing that if I turned away the horned king would pull me backward, consuming me in his fury. I stood like a deer before a hunter, unmoving, unblinking. Then the dream faded into uneasy sleep.

I woke this morning to a tornadic kitten clawing a swath of destruction across the bed. Amber light seeped through the blinds. A jar of Tupelo sunlight had overturned in the office, it's honeyed contents pooled upon the desk. The world beyond the window is softened by the morning. Light slants gently through the trees as shadows cling to every curve and crevice and the haze gives form to both.

Outside, the hibiscus has unfurled a bright red pennant, declaring itself for spring. Spider webs flash coded messages from the mailbox to the trees. Higher now, the sun sparkles off bright new leaves, a forest of tiny jewels, a private tribute to a crystal anniversary. A cardinal descends to the feeder then flits to the bare branched myrtle, sharing kisses with its mate. Flurries of oak flowers descend, forming drifts across the driveway like ropes of dirty snow.

Inside my sanctuary of glass, I watch swirls of steam rise from my coffee cup, lambent in the morning light. I reflect on my dream from the night before, and remember a similar threshold many years ago. One spring from Imbolc to the equinox, I haunted a wooden bridge across a quiet stream in a botanical garden at school with a novel between classes. On the near side was the domain of daylight, cultivated paths, constrained rivulets, maintained shelters. On the far side, the domain of night, fallen trees, the wilds, the clearings where we performed our youthful rites and ceremonies behind a veil of darkness. Below was the stream, always the same yet ever changing in swirls and eddies, rising and falling with its principal seasons, rain and dry. Upstream was the rope swing where we would splash once summer solidified its grip. Downstream were the dorms where soon I would go to live.

But it was the scene above the bridge that captivated me as I stared into the sky between chapters. At first the view was clear, obstructed only by denuded maples. At Imbolc, I saw nothing but the piercing blue of a crystalline sky broken by a web of branches. As the days fluttered by like pages of a unattended novel riffled by a spring breeze, I noticed a faint red blur clinging to each branch. The blur became a fuzz that each day became a little more distinct as tiny, red leaves unfolded to seek the sun, their winter slumber over. Week by week, I marked their progress as they grew then slowly transformed from red to yellow-green, half a shade each day. By the equinox, they were a full, bright green, their canopy completely shading the sky.

I relish the memory of those tranquil spring days after a series of harsh winters. Like the new, red leaves I remember that spring, I draw comfort seeking the sun, knowing that until summer ends I no longer need to fear the darkness. The wind outside brings changes. The night king's time is over; the sun queen's reign has just begun.


© 2009 Edward P. Morgan III

Imbolc 2009

Imbolc 2009 - a reading (on YouTube)

Today is Imbolc, the first day of the Celtic spring.

Each year I've used that line, I've been greeted with rolling eyes and gentle laughter. "Where I live, spring is still many weeks away."

I think that is the difference between the Celts and the Christians who co-opted their festivals. The Celts saw two distinct signs of spring today. They saw the light had returned to the level it was at Samhain (All Hollow's Eve). They saw the ewes lactating, a sure sign that lambs were on the way. Their traditions survive from the cold and desolate places where they lived, Ireland, Wales, Scotland.

Theirs wasn't a Nordic cold. The Norse didn't have much use for a goddess of poetry anyway. Winter for them was a time for sharpening weapons and preparing the longboats to launch once the thaw came while the skalds inspired them with the sagas. An egalitarian people, they didn't discriminate on whose lands they raided, on whose books they liked to eat.

The Celts were more in tune with nature than our Christian ancestors. In Christianity, today is the Feast of Candlemas, the Purification of the Virgin. Where the Celts focused on the quality of light outside, I think the Christians saw only darkness, saw only another day to burn candles against the pagan night. Some see seeds, where others see only soil.

Here, a bright yellow fog of pine pollen drifts in front of the windows with every gust of wind. Soon, that wind will turn amber-brown as the oaks join their cousins' arboreal fertility rite. Brigid's flame sparks the red unfolding in the new leaves of the maples, and fans the yellow-orange embers dying in the oaks. Fallen leaves reflect the sun like so many water droplets splashed across the road, like so many tiny candles strewn across the lawn. Crepe myrtles wander naked through the landscape, their limbs barren of all but last year's empty husks.

Cardinals dot the branches, vibrant reminders of the season just begun. They disguise themselves among the hibiscus, sheltering near solitary blossoms. Orange honeysuckle lift their trumpets toward the sky, the first flowers of a coming symphony. Azalea's pop with recently forgotten colors, purples, pinks and reds.

Eagles and osprey call their mates to nest. They return to the same haunts year after year, latticeworks overlooking the rich hunting of a tidal basin, pines towering above the stone-strewn field of human dead. Soon their nests will blossom with young in ones and twos like the wildflowers dotting the lake shores their parents hunt. Young heads will cry for life to feed their insatiable hunger, their need to see a future as bright with promise as their piercing eyes.

I hope today you will turn your own eyes toward the horizon and search for the subtle omens that spring is on its way. Like the alpine flowers whose blossoms burst through snow, the signs are there for those who unchain their blinders, and choose clarity over night.


© 2009 Edward P. Morgan III

Vernal Equinox 2008

A green haze envelops otherwise bare branches like sea fog clinging to the high-rises across the causeway, obscuring all but their outlines against a leaden sky. Clouds of pollen explode with each gust of wind, staining all it touches a stone-ground mustard. Older oaks shed piles brown and ropey flowers in favor of the bright green garments of their rebirth. Red maples bank their scarlet flames in favor of a cooler, coppery patina as the next generation of leaves unfold. Pine needles emerge in deep green clusters arranged like the fine brushstrokes of fur across a cat's face.

Puffs of dandelion ride the wind to fertile lodgings far from their ancestral homes. Tiny wasps dip and weave as they seek shelter from the storms of air between plentiful snacks of nectar. Crows battle headwinds to a standstill before turning their wings and returning to the destination of their departure.

As the wind quiets, cardinals share kisses in the naked myrtle after he offers her delicacies of seed. Blue swarms of jays with sunflower prizes flutter and hop among the dun bones of skeletal oaks. Squirrels climb and cling to the bare, tan trunk that supports the ceramic pool from which they drink while contorted like yoga masters setting a careful watch for the tiny panther that prowls their domain. Chattering a warning to brethren who scramble to safety, they scold their adversary as if victorious in a child's game of hide and seek. Their taunts turn to mourning the day he wins a round, a limp trophy swaying in his jaws as he retreats to the kingdom from which he came.

Below the drama, one lame dove with a club foot bobs across the yard, pecking up scraps cast down by her rivals, reminding me that spring sustains even the damaged among us as we struggle to overcome our limitations, sometimes flying where we cannot run.


© 2008 Edward P. Morgan III

Fall Equinox 2007, two days early

There is a bright white quality to the light this morning. The sun sparkles as it filters through the leaves of the oaks to the east. The morning light is even, the colors in the garden pure. Lavender petunias, yellow alamandas, red impatiens. The fuchsia of the final myrtle cluster. The white of a lone rose. All untainted by the pink or orange or gold of dawn.

The dark clouds have lifted, the storm has drifted north. Last night's rain has washed summer from the air, at least for one morning. When she returns, her heat will be half-hearted as though she knows her days are numbered and she can no longer bring herself to give her best. We enter the time between, the twilight of summer before we throw our windows open to embrace the fall into night. The dying embers of a once raging fire, warm, no longer blazing.

The morning is full of motion. The wind sways the branches of the myrtle as though they are bobbing for apples in the bird bath, or seeking to shed the clusters of berries that replaced their flowers overnight. Pine needles, brown and sere, spiral down to carpet the lawn. The chimes on the porch ring a five note harmony. The air is dry, the sound carries like carillon.

A year ago, I sat on the porch trying to capture the sounds and scents of another equinox two days early. My desire was to write, to keep writing. To mark the cardinal points of the coming year, to celebrate their midpoints with words. Eight messages were my goal. At the winter solstice I got caught up in someone else's adventure and poured my energy into that instead. The remaining five still flew from my mind, sometimes on battered wings, sometimes in the dead of night, sometimes barely taking flight. But they held the air if not always soaring.

That small accomplishment inspired other messages, other musings. They are my experiences, they are my expression. They are my visions, sometimes confessions. They are exercises to keep my mind from dwelling on what might have been, what might yet go wrong. They are the ones I feel are good enough to share. Some days, they are the only thing I write. They are my commitment, one taken a year ago, in similar light, in similar weather.

So this morning finds me savoring that pure white light as it casts clouds of flame upon my desk after passing through the red and orange glass panel in my window aptly titled Serenity. I hope the coming equinox finds you as peaceful and content.

© 2007 Edward P. Morgan III

Morning in Another Light

Sunlight pours through the front window from a crucible of molten copper, as dark and richly thick as tupelo honey spilling across the white linen tablecloth then oozing to the floor, staining the carpet just an instant before it's gone.

As the morning cools to the palest orange sherbet, a faint breeze dusts the walk with a lavender snow from the myrtles finally come into bloom. Above, an aura bees on golden wings flash and dance around each cluster as they delicately sample the bouquet like connoisseurs at a wine tasting.

Sunrise warms to lemon-lime. Jays and cardinals conduct a war of blue and scarlet at the feeder, each side's young fluttering their encouragement as they await the feast that surely follows their parents' victory. Beyond, a lone, red hibiscus stands sentinel against the wall of green, watching from the shadows.

© 2007 Edward P. Morgan III