Muse-inspired poetic prose. I did a little free-association meditation this weekend regarding the nature of the current Imbolc season, which I somehow don’t really ‘FEEL’ this year. Winter for me hasn’t really even Started yet, much less broken up in hopes of spring. Not sure why that is, but will probably be a topic for an upcoming moon-post. (what to do if the holiday spirit is not in you yet?)
In the course of my meditation, I had a really nice solid visualization. Usually I tend to get little daydreams, but this was one of those rare “forget-I’m-sitting-here” types, so I wrote it down immediately. This is stream-of-conscious, so forgive any strange metre or awekward wordings. If I waswriting this as “actual Poem” I would heavily edit it, and possibly lose some of the subtle images I was seeing/remembering.

Also, I must admit reading this in the daylight when I’m near the computer to post it, it seems REALLY depressing, though not even remotely meant to be. I did not FEEL sad at all, when writing this. I was actually quite happy and grounded. So, read it in a balanced peaceful mood, and let me know your thoughts?

Darkness falls with wintery blankets over field and farm, and the clouds dance briskly with the silvery pale sky-sickle. At some hour, in some place, lights are burning,and flowers strewn in festive spirit.

But here, it is cold, and the celebration is one of solitude. Spring is coming, they say. The grasses and bulbs stirring amidst the packed earth, under this snow and ice. Soon, as the season tells, the world will change and bloom. But here, it is dark. It is cold. It is winter.

Across the clouds, a distant caw echoes. Shadowed flocks of crows are shifting roosts, driven from their initial sleep by some unknown disturbance. They shimmer almost invisibly against the moon-touched clouds, racing opposite the wind, and seem not-quite real. Like spring, they are half-seen, half-heard, and distant. But they are here.

I light a small candle, huddled as I am against the slight breeze. I envision the flame reaching outwards, a symbol of that season-to-come, the merest pinpoint of hope among the snowdrifts here.

And try as I might, to shelter it in a glass chimney, to block the breeze with my hand…it flickers out again. It is cold. It is dark.

Spring is coming, for nothing halts the wheel of time and the cosmic dance continues unabated. But right now, in this place, it is winter.

-Nate (Imbolc ‘08)

Thoughts?

4 Comments »