The April fires burn into the velvet night.
Flames turn to ash and memories
the last remnants of the dark, dead times.

And so the Festival begins.

Wine is drunk.
Songs are sung.
Love is made.
Boys take girls to the forest and become men.
Girls become women.
And women become mothers.

The Mother of All smiles
from her perch atop the moon.

Like it has for generations
flames turn to ash and memories the dark and dead.

And so the Festival begins.

– Josh Krach

Author’s Note: Spring is my favorite season. This poem is a nod to the first clear, warm evenings when the moon is full, the first flowers are blooming, and all the dead is burned away in the first bonfire of the season.