I wrote this a few years ago and thought I would share.


Imbolc

The season of plenty is over and done.
We've welcomed the new year and welcomed the Sun.
The larder is leaner, the woodpile is low,
But somewhere, spring waters are starting to flow.

The world in her slumber is starting to dream
Of green fields and pastures, of honey and cream.
While we begin counting each branch and each bowl,
The Gods are thus counting the marks on each soul.

A time then of reckoning, counting and worth,
Of deeming true value and culling our girth,
Of finding what matters, what lies deep within,
And checking our balance in spirit and skin.

When each mouthful matters, when each blessing sings,
How can we then stew upon these lesser things?
The ice is still thick and the snow's just as deep,
But we've got things to do while the world's still asleep.

This season is owned not by Winter nor Spring
But these quiet moments have been measuring
In inches and hours, in pounds and in pecks
Our world and ourselves in their many respects.

We find something worthy, we guard it with care.
We wonder at all that is simply "just there."
We buy and collect, we save and we store,
At times such as these, then we ask, "What's it for?"

In Winter's deep cavern, the promise not born,
We stand at a threshhold, so eager yet worn.
A time for reflection, and casting aside,
A time to be empty and quiet inside.

The season of plenty is over and done.
We've welcomed the new year and welcomed the Sun.
The larder is leaner, the woodpile is low,
But somewhere, spring breezes are starting to blow.



© LSG 1-27-01 11:56 PM