IN THE OAK GROVE
In the Oak Grove come February
The Queen of Winter struggles with Brighde
for the right of Spring to emerge.
Tend your fire
O Cailleach, Dark Mother.
Barren now, I am unable to give much.
Where you lead, the green landscape fades.
We meet at the edge of things
gather the dry tinder of love remembered.
Here are the unwritten deeds
of my grievous neglect.
Kindnesses kept and never shared
regrets large and small.
Will these reluctant gifts burn?
or only smoke and smolder.
Nonetheless, the work is sealed
the offering made
whether accepted or not.
Never to be taken for granted