A seasonal poem about Brighid’s time before Imbolc.
(Image description: A black tea kettle has steam rising from its spout. Light from a stove’s fire reflects off its surface.) Credit: Photo by Jacob Capener on Unsplash
Sounds of the Season
Mist hanging heavily,
like a veil,
crystalline beads falling
keeping time on tree limbs
Drip, drip, drip
a slow drumbeat
against the ground
keeping time with the Earth
The soft thwip
of thread through wool,
patching and mending
more fields on Her mantle
Sharp crinkle of paper,
gilded edges curling
as the designs are readied, with
hammer and anvil to make manifest.
In each thrice-blessed smooring,
the sacred flame is steadily watched
the crackle and hiss a melody
as She prepares for the spring.
Prayers alight to Her ears
as tea brews in the kettle,
each whisper and word
like the steam from its spout.
Her response is a poem,
winding words and lilting laughter
like a pilgrimage path,
a promise of Her approach.
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