"Imbolc"

"Imbolc"

The month that brings back everything
with luck, dawns cold and gray
so we may all together sing
to keep the chill away!

The silent call, the subtle bell
deep within the turning year
is heard in forest and woodland dell
by robin, wren, and deer.

It may be muffled by hats and coats,
but the Sun will tell the time
by slowing the oarsmen of His  boat
and leaving gold behind.

Sap is rising under bark
and water  under ice
and the soul rises within the dark
and sleepily blinks its eyes.

A yawn, a stretch, a month goes round
and soon we wake to see
clouds of white, but not of snow
hanging from the trees.