He Begs the Dark Lady for a Taste of Light

What flows was once frozen,
what freezes once was flow.
Life and death are woven
like raindrops in snow...

The bone fire of old rams,
the teat stream of the ewe,
the glittering holograms
of midnight stars in dew;

glance of half moon
on a dark icy pond,
a bright crystal rune
of reflection, a wand

of dragonwort touching the seed
that sleeps under sod
in hollows that bleed
to bear the crocus god;

white witchery of Imbolc
cloaks the frozen field,
a shimmer-gift of fairy folk
to salve a wound unhealed -

the brittle Winter sun
my heart to pierce and thaw,
and make my sap to run
from furrows raw.

O mover of the looms
of time, dear Mother wise,
sow roses in these tombs
of light, my sleeping eyes.
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LINK to hear this poem read aloud.  Image: Irish
Imbolc Goddess Brigid, often on Pinterest, uncredited.