May First

I’ve no desire to braid the arrival of summer.
I have never worn flowers in my hair, seeds waltzing
on the breeze tickling my nose and teeth.
I never danced around a Maypole.
The spring ribbons hang down like willow branches
and never touch my fingertips.

I drink warm ale in the churchyard
and watch them weave sideways instead.
I wait for the holiday moon.

Because I worship bedposts,
bars made of maple and pine.
The sap covers my hands, ribbons glued
to my chest and my arms and my neck.
I dance some sort of rumba on hot, short breaths
tap my toes to a wicker heartbeat.

I think: wouldn’t Freyr be proud of me?
I think: do German tongues taste divine?