The sun touches my face suddenly,
the crone’s kiss from my eyelids;
cutting like an amber blade into a landscape
parched of colour.
Sometimes it hurts to be awake,
an ache reminding me of the cobweb pull
of seductive sleep.
But with this sun comes a comfortable awareness,
a warm touch across my forehead
bringing the scent of the gentle first stirrings of spring
and the hearthsong that calls the sap to rise in the trees.
Pulsatilla, anemone, sedge,
all begin to stir beneath the snow.
I can hear them
the last of their stories that pass the time
as they sit, gathered together
in their dark snow-capes and frozen mud-boots,
anticipating the glorious wavering heat;
thirsting for light.
March 7, 2008