'Today is cloudy, cold and grey. Earlier the wind blew in short strong gusts through the leafless branches of the big, old Box Elder by our home.

Everything is still now. Mother Earth quiet, getting ready for the coming storm.

Long ago on a similar day a child was born. A little boy with golden hair and eyes like a lions. A mother's love, a mother's pride. Born amid great tall oaks and slow southern hills. On a farm overlooking river curves and the blue-grey folds of ancient peaks., it was a time balanced precisely between winter and spring.

Years passed, the mother's true heart loved deep, but the bond was thwarted. and broken, taken by the hunger of one whose emptiness could never be filled. A thief with grasping arms and a mouth full of cleverness and false divinity. Usurper of innocence and God-given rights.

More years passed and the boy grew into a man. The mother's true heart loved on. Steady and unwavering she waited.. Getting ready for the storm which would one day come.

The wind whispered, the seasons sailed by, winter, spring, summer ,autumn. Still the mother waited, drawing strength from her love, her trust.

The cycles of the wheel turned, the stars shimmered on their courses, and yet another winter melted slowly into spring.

Great storms came, tiding over the weak and unwary, blowing through walls and doorways, seeking to restore the natural order of lands, and hearts.

In this impelling time, between winter and spring, wild geese cry and take flight, wing to wing, with last years children. 

The mother's true heart loves on, remembering closeness and a bond shared only by one.

Long ago a child was born . . . 

                                             SvG

Last evening was cold, white and mysterious. Alongside the three quarter moon, Venus lit up the southwestern sky with unusual brilliance. Following its ancient course across the heavens, the Milky Way stretched from horizon to horizon., and on Orion's right shoulder a glittering red star graced the night.

In the woods, two Great Horned owls called back and forth, their voices restless and urgent.

There is more daylight now. A subtle shift moves  through the land. Tiny whisperings awaken roots and branches, small squeaks and rustlings increase, as word spreads that the green fire is stirring.

The not-so-wild creatures sense something too. Our small horses have already begun to shed a little of their winter woolies, goat-friend's golden eyes glow with the new life growing within her, and little moon-cow dreams of sunshine and meadows.

The green fire comes in other ways as well. Sometimes it comes in the form of shimmering northern lights, or luminescence on the sea, or foxfire on a soft southern evening. Sometimes it comes as the taste of summer wine, wind among the leaves, or the light in a lovers eyes.

Last night it came as a huge green fireball. Streaking hot-tailed across the sky, until  it exploded and fell like a thousand stars into the great dark lake below. I was awake when it happened. First an emerald flash, then silence. The owls were still, the land surprised and waiting.

Wild green power reverberated through the darkness. 

Words came. Forming, unfurling . . .Time to awaken. Time to shed. Time to send out new shoots, give birth to dreams, and sing out loud to the sun. 

 The green fire is stirring. Open your heart and welcome in spring.
                                                        
​                                                               SvG