The earth is sleeping, swaddled by the snow
and deep within the minds of men, the light
of language struggles to be found, the glow
reflects in hearths built high against the night;

in months when tempers fray, and lovers fight
in corners, where inventors build their schemes,
she stirs, and tiny vision-words burn bright –
the poem grows from seeded winter dreams.

 

Outside, where howling winds of fury blow,
the world can sense her greening through the white
and sighs; the ground is rich with life below,

and soon the breeze will waken hob and sprite,

returning all the magic and delight
to dormant woods, to frozen rills and streams.

Such stirring shall her wondrous pen excite –

The poem grows from seeded winter dreams.
 

The winter will surrender, spring will grow,
the Stag will take his Bride, as is his right,
and men shall sing her music as they sow
the future, all they know and all they might
become; they plant their wishes and invite
the season’s blessing. Goddess-touched, she beams,

and as she gives their aspirations flight,

the poem grows from seeded winter dreams.

 

In stone and oak, from every dell and height,

her words resound, the newborn country teems
with life; the sun-touched hills and plains ignite
the poem grown from seeded winter dreams.