The Lord and Lady of Autumn

Freyr and Freyja rode out into the sun-dappled woods,
bows and falcon-fletched arrows ahand, aback boars,
the twins wore cloaks of wolf, fall was at its apex,
the smell of loam and Nerthus’ autumnal perfume rose
in mist like an intoxicating oracle past oak and ash.
The Golden Twins were hunting the white hart, dashing
through Vanaheim aback war sow and hog, spilling ruby
blood of Freyr’s sacred antlered stags, Freyja saw a
spiderweb woven of gold, and as Freyr roasted the hart
she strayed in her feather cloak and moonlight dress to
a dwarven hollow, where a soot-rough duergar smithed a
beautiful bracelet shaped like the sun, Freyja swelled
with gold-lust, for Gullveig is her witch-name, and the
metal of morning and dawn is her domain. Freyja spoke
words of want to the blackened dwarf: “Lay with me this
harvest tide, and you shall mine gems and find Baltic
amber on shores of the cold northern sea, my veins run
with starlight and I will give you a taste of my mead.”
They tussled and turned hay, and bliss was Freyja’s gift:
two shining arm bands her gift for a gift, she cares for
the small folk, be they man or wight, and she is never
selfish with kisses or praise, sweet Freyja raises men
and immortals up with her charm and enchantments, shining
Freyja is the first taste of morning dew on a strawberry,
and when winter came, the dwarf kept a strand of her hair
to remind him of the warmth of the Lady of Brilliance,
so was won the shining bracelets of Freyja Long-Weeping,
and so Freyr and Freyja returned to Asgard full-bellied,
precious white buckskin and golden ornaments for the glory
of the Van, that night they ate at Noatun with kind Njord,
and the gulls cried of apples and barley, and the earth
began to sleep, dusky autumn had arrived, peace abounded.

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Hela’s Tithe

The blonde huldra has a birch bark back
she dances in flowery fields for Freyr,
delights in cow tail sweeping men’s sleep
one with the earthen ploughs and dales,
a dancer on the Forest King’s hollows,
but just as Ingvi gives his life harvest,
so must the elf woman learn of sacrifice.
She sleeps in a gossamer moss down bed,
hair long as wheat shafts, sparkling sun,
the Maiden of Helheim, Hela Half Rotted,
rises with the moontide, graces the girl
a spiderwork of bones shimmer under skin
as Hela lays hands over the burning witch
she may belong to the Golden God, but Hela
is also her mistress, life and death twine
like thread in braided brass hair, frolics
in fields, Ingwaz to Ear, Green Man falls
to Lady Death’s scythe, and in the milk of
her marrow, John Barleycorn is reborn.

Litha

Freyr is golden-locked like barley
his eyes the green of verdant moss,
voice a burbling brook, but all his
beauty is deceiving, for he is death
spilling out blood on Nerthus’ breast
to fructify the earth and till tithes
for Vanaheim does not run on mead alone
no, it requires seed and gore and bone
Barri Woods always know lover’s lilacs,
but at midsummer, the flowers bloom red
as Ingvi takes the sickle to his neck
and paints his head on the summer wind
gift for a gift, his manhood swells,
Odin may hang but Freyr is a mound,
and true nobility flows from riches
buried deep beneath the soil, and so
my Golden God pays all Asgard’s debts
and Gerda kisses him back to life, his
true sword serves them well, overflow,
overflow,
spill.

Freyfaxi

Seven white horses, tails with bells
barley and heather, midsummer smells,
we roll in the fields, sunshine bright
boar for the feast, mead for the night.

Freyr

The curve of a tree, weighed down by blossoms
is my favorite place to find you, one with the
roots, your antler curved like the branches,
hair the gold of yellow ochre fall leaf bower,
buckskin leggings the color of bark, green knit
sweater smelling like basalm, pine needle eyes
that open and shudder with morning grass frost –
I sat down with you in the grove, you showed me
how to become one with the trunk, the flowering
of Yggdrasil, Ratatosk and Nidhogg in their quiet
burrows – you are a part of that tree, Gebo light
as falling leaves, for the gift of the gods flow
down to Midgard, where we revel in the roots, god
and devotee, man and girl, my beloved Shining One,
your frith fruits with compassion, and your sword
was given for love long ago, and service is your
true name, to kindred kith and kin, you tell me
that there is no greater gift than noblesse oblige
forefather of my Yngling clan, Hail the Golden God.