Beest thou beautiful.

the song of the Southern Gate sings -- the light gilding the river, necklacing the Mother therein with flame. grass heads, heavy and full -- the grain of the wild, dotted with its flowers. the flame of the yarrow cutting the gloom of dusk.

night falls. mist hovers over the pond's mirror beyond the fringe of trees, columns of ghosts. we are alive, the red blood running, river of flame. the dark trees, fringed, sentries to a tower but not to silence.

the night sings, a cicada lust. birds trill their farewells, an opera of the senses as the brown moths flit, a crown.

and a thread runs, unseen -- palm to palm but not touching, not yet. cracking open the egg, giving a glimpse of my heart's yolk, gold as the sun.

the flame that does not smoke, that rises pure with the dawn. the lover of water, it crowns, dancing on its surface, on the blooms of the yarrow, the yawning day lilies. fullness, the summer's heavy scent, its hand through our hair, stirring the pale hairs on our limbs.

the gate is twined grapevine, and the Young Son sets it alight with his spear. a ray, a flame, a flower bloom, a desire that courses, a mirror that reflects, a love like water crowned with light.

beest thou beautiful.