Brigid’s Ritual, Part 2

I’m sad, Ariel, my world —-my country—- is in trouble.
Words in the spirit world tumble out in a non-linear way,
Projected —-not spoken.
She squeezes my hand.
Small, dark, and ancient, Ariel is a constant presence
Next to me when we fly as crows—-
Or sit as women near the bon fire
On a hill facing east.
She points to the sunlight surging across the horizon—-
And hope arrives in yellow and orange, filling me with
Warmth, expanding beyond me to encompass the world.
Fertile earth presents the first flowering of the 
Vernal season —-clusters of purple crocuses 
And white spring beauties.
It smells of moss, of green things to come.
The dawning of the day brings assurance of the passing
Of time, cycles.
Malice, religious fanaticism, and ignorance 
Can’t be disposed of by a thought or by 
The passing seasons.
However, by drawing my senses to the new day
Ariel has grounded me in my own motivation and belief:
The creative spark at the beginning of everything
Is as beautiful as dawn on the eve of spring tide—-
And at the end of all things
The color of love 
Is warm —-like the sun.

Laurel Owen, March 2024