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.

Honey, Grain, and Amber

The Shining Twins wear amber and green
golden hair like barley and wheat, eyes
blue for Mardoll, green for Ingvi, Vanic
rites of sweetening harvest, first shaft
of wheat springing up in the fields, wains
carry the Twins across Germania for pageants
no sword may be drawn, no blood spilled,
for in the temple of the Golden Ones is frith
prosperity tilled from the soil as lovers
lay down and know Gerda’s passion for Freyr,
heartsick Freyja’s tears of jewels after Odr,
the Twins themselves rut in the dirt like boars
like Nerthus and Njord before them, Sacred Rite
of scythes falling grain, and rains aplenty
the Lord and Lady walk in peace come eventide.

Dandelion

Freyr shapes me into a fragrant yellow flower
at first I am a green bud, ripe with possibility
next, gestation, my pistil and stamen stretch,
bees grace me with honey kisses, each fertilization
a dream of mine petaled out in glory like the sun
fall comes, he plucks me with the harvest, blows
my hopes and desires and wishes across the fields
my dreams are carried to far shores, and I live on.

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.