On the Eve of Imbolc

The time before now
that is also now
spans across space, creating a web of infinite nows.
In this now, this one here,
I feel Brigid
weaving her mantle to warm and bless me
as bard, who sings of the now that was our home
before now
in that other time
that was now
and we sat beside the Boyne
and dipped our fingers
into the flowing river
and held our fingers
to our lips to stain them with the clarity
of the poems that are sung at dawn
and at dusk
and call to her, to you
in this guise as a mortal sitting in front of me
hands outstretched
a flame in each hand
offering healing
offering warmth.
The tear, the singular tear that crawls slowly down your face belies the trust you had in us,
the trust of remembering that which was too dear to be forgotten.
Brigid, I am trying--
still a little girl in a crone’s body
I do not know the answers,
I only try to remember the song,
the melody beneath the words
that string the sounds into pictures and moment, and birds flying across the pure skies
and the fish moving sleek bodies through the water and beneath the water
and the trees, the trees, the trees,
and the cedars outside my window with their sacred spirit beads.
There is something coming that was said back then and remembered on the backs of the songs that swirl in ribbons of air around my head.
We can change this, we can return to that now that is still this now.
We, the poets, can remember, and tell the tales
and seek the words to say this is not all that was supposed to be.
There was a shininess beneath the dross that spills over at the edges of mankind.
Brigid, give us strength
and fire to burn away the darkness and herald a new day of rebirth,
to postpone the annihilation that breathes like a dragon across the land.
Brigid—give us the fire, 
to forge a sword 
to bring the light to night 
to bring the right that is might 
to stand and fight to save us all.
 

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