A poem for the new month: The wind moon

In comes the wind moon, Nuin, clear and cold,
wind in the ash trees, and the fallen wood
makes an excellent wand. The pen in the hand
keeps records of the mind’s roaming, or
the ten fingers are ten excellent weaver’s beams
weaving on a keyboard, sending words flying
through the ether. It is cold, cold, yet the birds
are waking, calling, flitting, stretching in the sun.
The snake comes out of the hole with the blessing
of Brigid, the groundhog pokes out his furry snoot,
and change is on the move, no matter how hard
the frost giants grip the land they have seized.
In comes the wind moon, blowing away the past,
gathering the speaking gods, wandering gods,
trickster gods, Odin and Gwydion, Hermes
and Loki, Thoth’s ibis rising from the waters
of the Nile, and the god taps you with
his magic wand and you sing, you sing.

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