The name is taken from an ancient Celtic rite. After a short symbolic reign in which he received anything he could need or desire, the Summer King, consort of the Goddess, was burnt in sacrifice to Her.
They say time heals all things
but I am still uncovering layers of hurt,
wounds over bruises over long-numbed scars,
and sad, jaded eyes that once sparkled like stars.
Once I trusted as much as I loved.
When did it becomes so hard to give completely?
And when did I first become so afraid?
Winter freezes the young heart's shallow roots reborn,
but the broken tips still bleed crimson
drops onto the snow,
mingling with the soil of life and heartache.
Winter numbs the pain, yet
still I bleed.
You fertilized the soil that buried my heart,
fed life into fading petals,
the Beltaine birth of my bitter spring--
and then you burned away like Summer's King,
your tenure spent, my ashes scattered,
your light and warmth to kiss another's season
and death's cold frost crept o'er me again.
But I, not yet surrendered,
(too much lost in you)
clung to the fading light too long--
afraid that one more frozen night alone
would chill the delicate bud your hands
had coaxed into the Sun.
c. K.R.L. Kapphahn, 2000
