Imbolc

 

 

Full Moon is buried in our lungs.

She breathes with us.

 

Heart beats in a hurry
,

to keep in time,

with the passage of sweet fog.

 

The cold air fills

and empties

the magic chest,

treasure box

held within,

the holy ghost,

the spirit place,

the temple,

the toolbox,

the home sweet home.

 

The White Lady draws nigh,

twilight fills in her footsteps.

 

Feel her furry breath,

as she approaches.

 

She leaves muddy tracks

in the new snow,

and promises that someday,

one day,

when she consents,

spring will be here,

hot, with chill overtones.

 

Soundless, the Lady,

the moss under crystal,

thin February glass on small ponds.

 

She is the bird of early arrival,

the fox,

as he leaves his lair

to venture forth,

on a cold morning,

breakfast in mind,

after long hunger.

 

poetry: Sarah Fuhro

photo: Robert Fuhro