First Fruits (Lughnasa)
The corn falls to the scythe.
golden grain gives life,
gives of its flesh that we may thrive.
Each grain is a seed that dies aborning,
ground into our daily bread
instead of sprouting into life.
Sacred seed, given of the Goddess,
of Her goodness, of her generosity.
The reapers wipe sweat from brows
burdened with working until dark.
The first harvest must be threshed,
swept into bags, carried to the mill
to be ground between stones
slowly, painfully becoming our food,
bread of our days, flesh of our flesh
The Goddess gives and takes away.
Blessed be the Goddess, blessed be
the grain, gift of her goodness.
The wheel of the year turns,
Spins thread twisted of days
With mindful fingers,
Or absentminded ones.
We women pass time through our fingers
Drawing out our destiny between them.
Remember, we spin the thread
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