All the events in the upper worlds
impact us here, though they’re petty there.
Mother Frau Holle is making her bed,
shaking her blankets, shaking them vigorously
and we get a blanket of the whitest snow.
The continual din of the day is tapered,
sound is suffocated, by that snow-blanket,
and pure silence peals in powerful waves
across Midgard. We come to a halt,
our frenzy suspended in a forced rest;
an opportunity to take the measure
of our being and time ‘gainst boundless nature.
The simple action of an ancestral goddess:
so commonplace, occurring frequently,
yet miraculous ever. Really, how else
could the wondrous worlds thus work together?
(Starting with last week’s A Skaldic Eagle Takes Flight, regular weekly updates have now resumed on the blog. So far, what’s coming up from the Skaldic Eagle’s crop is probably closest in style to Beer in Midgard and Ancient and Modern Dragons. Yet next week’s poem will make the sorts of cultural references that are not usually seen here. . .)
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