Snow on the high hills,
floods in the valleys.
Spring flowers waking,
birds seeking crumbs on the rock-hard earth.
A cat crouches,
waiting for ever to spring.
Brittle bones break on the melting ice.
Earth turns in his sleep,
the young moon in the old moon’s arms.
A time of Hecate,
of Resurrection overdue,
oakleaves on a maiden’s back,
a man longing to be garlanded with Maypole flowers, but his time’s not yet,
apple-blossom getting ready to bud.
The old year holds its breath,
knowing Candlemas to be winter’s last flirtation
February 9, 2012, 16.41
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