Winter’s belly

Spring’s sternum

We are only in Imbolg — February — and early, at that. The tide is out. The sun is half lit beyond the sea. The first verse, still in the midst of being written, half sung, no matter how full bodied, from the hearts, hands, throats of a seashell oracle. Cracked open, just as some sweet dawn and the dew mist of breaking day. We are only beginning.

This is…