Ostara

This weekend I am re-starting, re-birthing ideas and my body. Leaving for NY with some friends to go sit outside in a little black box on top of frozen Lake Ontario. Yesterday was Ostara, the Sabbot of Spring, when the Goddess circles back to her maiden form and the earth yawns and opens her sleepy eyes. I spyed crocus stems poking out from the almost-frozen dirt as I walked to work, and the trees are taking on that purple haze of buds. Still, it is bittter cold. Ice in my hair.
I've been practicing my cello and my fingers are getting quite callused. I like them like that.

Random Poem Attempt for Ostara

Swelling buds but still unable to burst.
We shiver in anticipation and in ice.
I imagine sugar dripping from maples
and sap spilling from buckets.
I want to slip my tongue inside
the tree and slurp out the sweetness,
just barely not water, the tall
tree tapped for clear blood,
her blood, mother's milk
for her roots, leaves-to-be,
rare sugar for farmers, who thank
the forest in black boots and old
coats, boiling down the liquid
for hours and hours. Syrup from sap
transformed with heat, laughter,
and always smoke.