Imbolc

The end of winter, let it be here soon!
The darkness weighs me down and I am cold
As granite, and feeling nearly as old
On Janu’ry’s grim final afternoon.

Spring is growing in mother nature’s womb;
Snowdrops try to gain a tentative hold
Along the path in the woods where I stroll —
The changing season’s early, timid blooms.

The feast of the returning of the light,
The age-old signal for the start of spring.
As the day resists the fall of the night
A little longer now, we note the swing.

We’ll light the fires as our forebears once did
And drink to our ancient goddess, Brigid.