Bríg

The icy water of the sacred well slips down
your throat, the taste of stone on the back
of your tongue like the flavor of time at
the root of the World Tree. Turn your face
to the fading stars, brushed by the blushing fringe
of Her indigo cloak, and hear the crystal notes
of starry strings, the murmur of the dawn wind
a poem you almost understand under the susurrus
of leaves whispering Her name.

Her cloak holds the fire of stars
and waters of the sky. The dawn wind plays
on the strings of Her harp, whispering poetry
at the door of the day. Hers is the Fire in Water,
brewed by Her hand–water of the sacred well,
honey of Her bee, the breath of the wind.
No truth but Her fire lights it,
No joy but Her hand blesses it,
No song but the calling of Her name.

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