I posted this poem last year, and I'm feeling the same thing this year so I thought I'd re-post it to re-start my writing journey. I can't wait until Imbolc!
You found me,
wool wet in the snow and rain,
my sword frozen in
October fingers.
You said, "the King is dead
and she is gone.
The Callieach is afield
and you cannot triumph over snow."
You forced me to your bear cave,
fed me root-soups and ancient stories,
tended my heart as I railed against
the dying of the sun.
And yes, it is early,
and the frost is
only barely breaking,
but do not fear.
Sword in hand,
I am wading through the puddles,
my rested anxious legs in breathy fog.
I hear him coming.
I will hang the garlands.
When you wake from your slumber,
you need only celebrate and cheer
Persephone's return.
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