On the Eve of Midwinter when all is held fast,
And sleepless we wander and ponder the past;
When cold holds its grip on our hearts and the land,
Can Springtime’s sweet coming be so close at hand?

The grip of Midwinter is firmer than steel,
And makes us all weary, takes the taste from each meal;
The ice hangs above us and there’s snow on the ground,
And cold night is coming with dark all around.

So hush, my small children, and come, my brave man --
We’ll comfort their crying and soothe what we can
For the Old God is dying and the New God is late,
And we’re scared and uncertain and wary of Fate.

“Oh where is my Brother?” the Old God does cry,
“For unless he cometh, I shall linger, not die;
And my bones shall grow weaker for my time is at hand,
And my strength I feel failing, and so fails the Land.”

Like a Hawk to its Hunter the Young God did speed,
But hampered and harried, and his poor heart did bleed,
For his Brother was dying -- he could taste every pain.
In his wake the snow melted and turned to Spring rain.


The Young God called, “Brother!” as he dropped to his rest,
And he cradled him gently with his head on his breast;
And the Old God smiled softly as he turned to his sleep,
While the Young God did kiss him and silently weep

For the Young and the Old God are one and the same,
And these bittersweet moments in such joy and such pain
Are the only brief moments that they have to be Whole,
And they live in these moments, then they walk on, alone.

These moments consume us like flame a dry leaf,
And burn in our bodies and waken our grief;
But time surely passes and wounds close and heal,
And surely as Springtime, love’s fire turns the Wheel.