Contain

Snow woke us from our slumber,
open windows to a clement January eve,
more arrived beyond the foretold flurry.

We cannot contain you in prediction
or in fact, no matter our persistence.

MotherFather, Elder Brother, Sister Bride,
you are Wild in our self,
much bigger than we plainly hold.

You do not reside in books or buildings,
altar tables, cups,
images hung encrusted in gold,
flowing robes of rules.

Those, our inventions, constructed to explain.
We compose to console
but only for the privileged who agree.

MotherFather, Elder Brother, Sister Bride
You are bigger than what we may design.

Within myself, cathedral, forest glen,
Infinitity, there you reside,
MotherFather, Elder Brother, Sister Bride.

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Author’s Note:

Welcoming Brigid into my home this feast day. Acknowledging the space she can hold as Wisdom and Spirit in theThree in One. Oh, this may ruffle some feathers. But as Sophia, Brigid, also speaks to inspire us to wisdom and enlighten us to the Eternal.

And, on a different note of silliness, today two friends of mine, Michael and Kynan, responded on Facebook to our unexpected storm and made me chuckle. Our weather people this year have not been lucky in predicting the weather. We were only suppose to have a very “light flurry.”

The inspiration for my poem is Brigid’s and my friends’ honest response to our snow:

  • Kynan: One man’s flurry is another man’s winter blizzard Juno.
  • Michael:  It flurried on my happy ass last night, I had fallen asleep reading and was awoken by the snow blasting in the window I left open….

I have news for you

I have news for you

A keen wind yaws branches,
a reel stepped under icy breath
Buds burgeon on slender fingers
in ready for spring’s nativity

The red-berried tree almost empty
of its frosted wintered feast
glistens in sun’s morning glow

We are of deep winter here
our snows still come fierce and heavy
our earth solid with glacial glaze
our spring tarries elsewhere
while patience makes merry
with wintertide’s feile

This is my news

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Author’s Note:

I am preparing to celebrate the feast of St. Brigid and Imbolc. It is a journey into spring, although our spring here in Colorado will be some time in arriving.

To celebrate, I am participating in 30 Days of Brigid, a luscious on-line retreat offered by Joanna Powell Colbert. Take a look. It would be wonderful to have you walk with me this month.

Today, Joanna welcomed us to try our hand at describing our sacred space through the form of a 9th century Irish poem. Some sources say it was found scribbled on a monk’s manuscript.

“I have news for you:
The stag bells, winter snows, summer has gone
Wind high and cold, the sun low, short its course
The sea running high.
Deep red the bracken; its shape is lost;
The wild goose has raised its accustomed cry,
cold has seized the birds’ wings;
season of ice.

This is my news.”

— 9th Century Irish Poem

 

Blessings to you this day of wind and cold and ever-hopeful spring.