A Pagan’s Poetry…

mother-earth

There is a certain poetry about the seasons. The Wheel of the Year turns slowly and darkness descends as winter brings about a snowy, thick blanket, lovingly covering Mother Earth while She slumbers.  Cardinals visit the feeder and with high pitched chirps they fling seeds to the ground below where the chickadees await a smorgasbord of castoff seeds as if they will never peck a finer seed than the ones that are raining down on them.  It seems quieter after the snow falls; almost as if the world knows She slumbers and on tip toes, the wheel turns not wishing to awaken Her from Her slumber prematurely.

Slowly, almost gently, winter’s stark cold grasp gives way to the warmth and promise of spring.  Birds return in droves, singing lustily in the treetops, attracting a mate and gathering twigs and straw to cushion their eggs – the culmination of their coupling.  Rabbits emerge from cozy dens in search of the budding dandelion, the woods awaken and the cacophony of the woodland creatures’ song awakens the spirit.  The Mother is waking.  Her eyes peel open, the sleep falls from Her eyes and onto the budding crocus, opening the daffodils and tulips, filling the air with the earthy scent of Her awakening.

Again, as slowly as a feather falls from the wing on high, the full bloom of spring bursts into summer.  Warmth and light return full force, oceans meet sands licking at the bare feet of lovers and children frolicking on Her shoreline.  The days grow longer still.  The Mother sings gentle breaths. She breaths life onto the trees, across meadows of butterflies and blue birds.  Dragon flies skim lakes and land gently on reeds swaying in tune to Her gentle song.  Laughter and love fill the air.

And the wheel again turns ever so slowly toward a longing for rest as autumn arrives.  Leaves fade from green to vibrant tones of red and orange then fade to yellow and begin falling.  Ever so gently they cascade to the soft ground below and a faint sigh can be heard in the rustling of these leaves.  The Mother grows tired, the days grow shorter, and She will again envelope herself in the thick downy blanket of snow settling in for a long winter’s slumber as the pull of the wheel’s rotation brings Her full circle.

 

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