Lughnasad
Lughnasad I think my people used to light fires this night on hilltops to mourn the end of summer, to impregnate the coming darkness. Both. Who knows? The great god Lugh is dead and life goes on. That’s the hope. There were always fires on hilltops but now, at last, some balance, some fire, deep inside the cave of my body, creating shadow plays of stories older than my own, older than Lugh, than hope. No need (now, at last) for stasis. My every niche and nerve is fired with the potential to lighten up, to let go. S. Robbins, from Readings
Sherry Robbins 
Mine too.
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