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Art by Donald Engstrom-Reese

For days and years the folks have come.
In winter’s kiss, they’re drawn down deep.
For days and years they’ll come again,
embracing mystery’s golden sleep.



Her clan has gathered.
From far flung coasts and nearby iridescent lands,
they have moved across the flat and glittering fields
that lay, like brides, dreaming of aurochs-grooms.

How long the folks have planned.
Sort and pack, they wrap their finest from hearth and home,
certain that all spoils, sacred and stunning,
should share their shine at Sessrúmnir.

See them pour forth from stallions of steel
from fiberglass wagons and metal birds with frost-coated wings.
Hear their shouts bounce across the eager island,
bright words of joy misting into cool, connected clouds.



For days and years the folks have come.
In winter’s kiss, they’re drawn down deep.
For days and years they’ll come again,
embracing mystery’s golden sleep.



So they will work and strive,
while Sunna hikes her light skirts high, giggling at her own blue knees.
They will cluster, warm in their halls and dens
trading lore and the twists of new and ancient ways.

So they will taste and thrive,
feasting at Freyja’s heavy, aromatic tables,
savoring the careful love of her amber chefs,
who dance rich dishes into being, then sing them into art.

So they will float and dive,
following a River to ecstasy, that pours out over the frozen lake.
It calls and pulls at the dreams of wild things and children
and weaves healing hope into the weft of being.



For days and years the folks have come.
In winter’s kiss, they’re drawn down deep.
For days and years they’ll come again,
embracing mystery’s golden sleep.



And when the rites have risen, then closed,
and all attending gods have been well fed,
the folk will scatter, each a single burning star;
divine dots on a black landscape, living pearls on inky silk.

Some will tuck up tight in sleep’s soft sheets.
Some will gather in laughter and smoke around the lingering fire.
Some will rock and arch within mellifluous temples,
shivering prayers - divine sighs, passed fervently from lip to lip.

And some will wrap themselves in ebon silence
to walk a labyrinth of candlelight and ice
whose clear and frozen pages, press the flagrant red of roses
and the glint of witches’ breath, frosting the night with promise.



For days and years the folks have come.
In winter’s kiss, they’re drawn down deep.
For days and years they’ll come again,
embracing mystery’s golden sleep.

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