It's Still Life

Midsommar

Her name is Lovisa. My grandmother. My father’s mother. My farmor. It was my first Midsommar, or Litha as she called it. With her in Sweden. Not all of that day I remember, and probably fill in the gaps with floral scents from garlands and wreaths of elderflowers and daisies. Those summer flavours of herring, potatoes, strawberries, and Litha sounds of the bonfire crackling and roaring, sparks flying into the long dusk night sky. The grass was freshly cut. My feet bare. I ran between oak and birch trees that were adorned with wildflowers. It was Midsommar. Branches of oak were placed on the fire with gentleness and respect, an ancient blessing said for past generations and their spirits for protection. I remember throwing rowan berries on the fire, and sparks flew into the darkening sky. It was a night of ancient traditions and joy, a celebration of life, light and enduring magic. Of Midsommar. My Lovisa left us many years ago, but she is still my Lovisa. My grandmother. My teacher. My farmor.

Flames shall never know
Silver-bladed summer rain
Gowns of white roses

Written for dVerse Poets “Midsummer” . Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Images are copyright and not to used without permission, which I willingly give when asked, and when not for commercial use. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2024.