As the wheel turns again, here are a few writings on my farewell to Imbolc. Enjoy.

Last wool

There is a way to everything

and light in all.

Shadows become shorter–

are they even there?

The flesh rises,

or the sun does.

Something does.

Someone is supposed to be happy.

No one tells me

to embrace the grey.

No one remembers the mystery of darkness

nor mourns it.

Don’t ask me to never look back.

Don’t throw me your flamboyant flowers

or your platitudes.

Just keep your mouth shut;

it’s my last day to wear wool.

Circles

It was a window of trees

into a time of flowers.

The ice road climbed through memory

to reach kin.

Wildlife spoke in numbers,

in golden ratios,

And I only remember the scent,

the blooming of new life.

You ran circles around me

in the nonsensical hall,

calling out

in hieroglyphs.

Draw me,

paint me into your story

for another generation

… here.

End of winter

What does the end of winter look like?

A pool of melted slush?

A hint of sunlight on the greyest day?

Will the food grow?

Will the fae forgive?

Does a body awaken?

Does life renew?

Are there shards of joy waiting to attack?

Are there monsters in the sack?

Can I find myself again?

Can there be love where I see none?

Is this how winter ends,

not with a bathing suit, but with a hope?

From Imbolc to Ostara

From Imbolc to Ostara

from ice to rocks

From winter to spring

from boots to Crocs

From dark to light

from mystery to mirth

From grey to green

from conception to birth

From January to March

from wood to hearth

From Brighid to bunnies

from the depths into earth

From a seed to an egg

from love to life

From acquaintance to union

from maiden to wife