Last days of May 2025 . . .

Last Days of May, 2025

—a tarot elegy in motion

The wind moves faster now,

petals strewn in fervent haste—

Eight Wands flicker through the dusk

like arrows unloosed from thought,

each seeking meaning in a sky

too wide to answer.

Beneath the weight of twilight,

The Chariot surges—

iron-willed, myth-muscled,

drawn not by beasts

but tension between

Ego and Shadow.

This is not conquest, but cohesion.

To steer forward,

we must not flinch from the dark.

The Queen of Swords waits in cool light,

her blade not cruel, but precise.

A boundary drawn with grace,

a voice honed by grief and pattern.

She is the Self that has suffered

and become sovereign.

Now the hearth glows—

Ten of Cups spilling gold

onto the porch of a quiet home.

Wholeness, not perfection.

Joy, fleeting and full.

Anima and Animus

holding hands in the garden.

Across the threshold:

Ten of Pentacles,

the architecture of legacy.

Bones of ancestors in the walls,

their stories echo through halls

we build from memory and myth.

The Collective Unconscious

mapped in tile and timber.

But all things built

must be borne—

Ten of Wands staggers under dreams.

Too many Yeses,

too few hands.

A burden of meaning

carried across generations,

asking who we serve

when we say “I must.”

At the city’s edge,

The Emperor watches.

Structure incarnate.

The spine of the world,

order in a cloak of stone.

He is Logos made manifest—

Father, lawgiver, form.

But even he must yield

to the spiral dance.

For in the distance,

The World turns.

A mandala of everything,

eternal return.

Integration not as destination

but as motion.

Individuation made complete

only to begin again.

So the last days of May

unfurl like cards on a velvet cloth—

each image a mirror,

each symbol a threshold.

We do not merely witness the year’s turn;

we become it.

Motion. Mastery. Mourning. Meaning.

And in the stillness before summer,

we remember

that every cycle completes

so that we may begin.