Imbolc Blessings!

Down through time they come,

the old women

the wise women

the daughters and sisters and

mothers and all

creeping through woodlands,

dancing across meadows

clambering up hillsides.

And with them their menfolk,

those who would

those who followed and

those who led.

Wrapped in shawl or cloak

against the cold

winds whipping through murmuring

trees, they hurry

to gather in glade or across hilltop,

by stream,

by hearth

called by a voice ancient

thrumming in their hearts,

stirring in their blood.

“Arise, arise

‘tis the quickening of the year!

Deep within my Earth belly I

waken,

cracking open seeds that 

soon will sprout,

stretching hungry rootlets,

rising sap to

make its patient way

through trunks

long

waiting.

“And you, my people

wake from your stories

told round the hearth

step into the spring that is coming!

Take out your seeds.

Plunge hands in soil. For although

snow falls this day

my swelling buds and greening shoots

are not so far behind.”

And the women, young and old,

and the men, each wise in their way

turn to each other,

Brighid’s presence shining in their eyes.

Her song calling the tune.

And hearts held high,

they nod to each other

and dance the dance of

the turning wheel.

Blessed Imbolc that cracks open our seeds and our minds that we may waken to the dance of the seasons!