A poem for the season: The Spear Moon

Green is every bough
that is not brown with the
heat: The Sun is
a long-armed man
throwing a spear that roars
for blood, my blood, my sweat.
Heat prickles. Skin sticks.
In the spear moon, the air
is full of burning; the
forests are burning,
the flesh is burning,
the soil is burning,
burning up the black
blood of the earth,
burning up the
spirit in a rage
at injustice, fire
misplaced, it’s all
gone to hell–
the spear that wounds
may heal
if it does not
in the spear moon
in the burning.


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Writer, musician, polytheist, and friend of birds. I groove on transformative works.

2 thoughts on “A poem for the season: The Spear Moon”

  1. This is especially appropriate for our weather here lately: record highs, and the last two days, it’s hazy and looks overcast, but it’s actually smoke blown down from all the wildfires in Canada at present, which is making sunrise and sunset really weird-colored, and makes it feel even more muggy, but anyway…there we are.


    1. Morag at The Mundane Mystic wrote about the situation in British Columbia, where she lives; this is a response to her post as well as to our weather here, and conditions generally.


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