Hail, new-born morning, brighter now by half,
whose light falls golden on last year’s dry grass.
High upon crown of maples, old crows laugh;
though cold, they must know that winter shall pass.
And fox has a plan for tending her kits,
who even now distend and grow her womb.
Old fat mice she’ll convert to fresh new milk.
Eagerly her children will suck her tits;
her cream will save them from an early tomb,
and weave their fur, soft and supple as silk.
Sunlight melts snow, which sinks deep in black earth
to feed, drop by drop, in fullest measure
a seed preparing roots for sudden birth;
dihydrogen oxide, life’s first treasure,
becomes medium for love’s first message:
here is nourishment, and compassion, too,
from mother fox and mother Earth alike.
Not all newborns complete this first passage;
many begin, though survivors are few —
yet non can refuse, knowing what’s at stake.
Great Imbolc, nourish us with Spirit’s milk,
that ambrosia which is children’s first food.
No longer in deep darkness shall we sulk
No more from winter shall we hide or brood.
As cracks and crevices in solid ground
bear water to seed; as mouth suckles breast,
so are we now fed, with Spirit’s own light.
Let our new growth even Spirit astound:
show us to be worthy, content and blest,
by lengthening day and shortening night.
It’s late by several days, but enjoy it anyway.
