The season of festivities has ended.
The final yuletide greenery has died.
The land seems dull and drab and dreary.
It’s time to celebrate the feast of Bride.
The rain and melting snow have filled the rivers
whose waters wash the land free of decay.
The winter storms have culled the rotten branches
of trees and swept the autumn leaves away.
The frost has broken up the stubborn clay.
The icy air has purified the land.
And Mother Earth has suffered winters purging
no less than us, though ordained by her hand.
Through the worst of winter’s devastation
signs of approaching spring can now be found.
And everywhere green shoots appear even
through suffocating snow, ice hardened ground.
The slimmest spears of snowdrops pale and white
push through the earth; the symbol of the spring’s
return. The yellow pollen of the catkins
heralds the bounty which the season brings.
In still drab fields the lambs are seen at play;
the first born creatures of the infant year;
carefree and nurtured by their mothers milk
as Mother Earth feeds all her children dear.
Though the approaching spring is still a whisper
at Candlemas we celebrate her youth.
Pure white candles burning to remind us
to leave behind the past and seek for truth.
While human hands are turning to spring cleaning
and human thoughts consider youthful themes.
So human spirits will begin their quest
afresh and human hearts will dream new dreams.