There, fair maiden, the snowflakes suit you, just as the flowers do. And I see the way you have wrestled in the cemetery with the old bones of winters cold death.
It is that careful skate, winding through ancient woods, which has you gliding into some luminescent fate. Do you see the way your destiny is inscribed on birch bark?
You have arrived, precious soul, at the turning wheel. Where great fires burn, alight with bardic musings, the hearth of the Goddess.
It is time to self-dedicate once again. When you see that you are held, by a Rowan moon, and the divine light licks your forehead. Bow at your inner temple, for this is Imbolc, and your creative potential is protected and blessed by Brìghde.