Her white cloak brings the spring (a poem for Imbolc)

Her white cloak brings the spring.
Oh, you have forgotten?
Are you so blind from white
snow and sky, everywhere
white and cold blue, glacial
in its speed and its time?

In its speed and its time —
underneath Her white cloak
the soil — warm and awake.
Even now, buds reach up
but not yet through — blindly
knowing the light above.

Knowing the light above,
we cook the bannocks on
the hearth and weave crosses
of reeds from the river
dug out from the ice. We
call Her name from the door.

Call Her name from the door —
and She answers, touching
scraps of cloth on the rail,
singing in the hearth fire,
settling in the reed bed.
Her touch brings forth the buds.

Her touch brings forth the buds
on the sleeping branches
rimed with snow, heads bowing
with their wait. Rainbows spin,
catching light in the ice.
Her white cloak brings the spring.

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About whitecatgrove

The musings of a Druid priestess, singer, poet and musician in Upstate New York.
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One Response to Her white cloak brings the spring (a poem for Imbolc)

  1. Pingback: Not your Valentine: Februa, Imbolc and purification | White Cat Grove

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