forestlore: Born this day, amidst the first harvest, a hedge time, a threshold time. August, that de
forestlore: Born this day, amidst the first harvest, a hedge time, a threshold time. August, that death-touched month, that bated breath month, that twilight month, the golden sun setting behind me, a crown upon my brow, gazing into the gaping yawn of the dark. August, the trickster, the paradox, we dance drunkenly upon thy soft beds of bluebell and buttercup, our feet pounding the great drum of decay below. We fill our mouths with blood-cast berries, pluck wild garlic from viridian pastures, fill the larder, stock the cellar, split the wood. I was born in the reaping month, a new life amid preparations for death. How it has molded me. To harvest life is to swallow death.O’ death, I draw nearer to thee, but first, I live. IG: @sarah.petkus*please be respectful, do not remove credit. -- source link
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