Last hold of winter, grip of dark and cold,
our times of gathering close by the fire.
Tomorrow the maiden will strew flowers,
tomorrow the furrow, the scattered seed.
But tonight, once more belongs to the old
who know to sit quiet and count the stars.
Blessed sameness in the passing of years—
mountain snows flowing from river to sea,
trout lily leaves poking out from the mould,
rhythm of courting and birthing and tears.
Shall we gather tonight on the mountain?
Shall we sing together the last winter hymn?
Already the children dance by the fountain.
In the light of the sun, our fire grows dim.