Sacred, but no high priests —
only novices.
Begins as routine,
becomes ecstatic.
A bloom, a spike, a rolling boil,
a helter skelter scream.
Tapping deep river, following its course
along dark banks.
A dance taught
by the sway of wind-sweetened woods.
Assumption, ascension;
no savior but the moment itself —
ritual burst of joy,
usually, at the end.
Dark Matter 