She is the Fire

Sun Child, All Fire, Brigid, goddess, saint.

Becloaked in green, feet shod with shamrocks, blooms.

My muse, long days, short nights, her presence, feint.

Her song, her voice, her beauty, Summer looms.

Then I awake, enigma, she is gone.

Love lost? Who can hold sunshine’s drops or rays?

A maiden goddess, gift, prize, Dagda’s spawn

What poems? What songs? What charms? What, who sways?

Her truth is not found in lyrics but heat,

And light and earth’s rebirth, Fertility.

Could Brigid be owned by one? The conceit.

She, enduring flame, blithe tranquility.

She bathes me in her glow, she succors me.

Our Brigid, all warmth, floral, pure, and free.