01/03/2025
The Turning Path
In the space where frost lingers,
where the earth dreams in whispers,
Brigid walks with feet of flame,
her touch stirring the quiet roots below.
The March Hare waits, watching,
half-shadow, half-spring’s restless pulse.
He tilts his head, ears flickering,
as if listening to the wheel turn.
“You flow like the river, never bound,” he murmurs.
Brigid exhales, her breath woven with light.
“And you dance like the mist,” she answers,
“always between, never held.”
Snowdrops shiver at her passing,
their white bells ringing in the hush.
Daffodils stretch, shaking off slumber,
petals catching the hush of her flame.
Lambs weave through the light,
spinning their joy into the air.
The Hare leaps—circling, weaving—
his paws writing stories into the soil.
Brigid watches, then steps into his rhythm,
her fire curling through his dance,
through the breath of the season,
through the slow unfurling of spring.
The Hare pauses, ears twitching.
Brigid lifts her gaze to the morning sky.
Between them, the air stirs—soft, golden, alive.
The world exhales.
Spring has come.
