Fensalir in Winter
The heron, fishing, cracks a fine film
of morning ice. The fish are sluggish,
the beavers stay in their lodges.
The kit fox goes in a white coat now,
buries his black nose in his paws
when he is waiting for prey.
Her eyes sparkle as she walks before weaving,
storing up colors, the blue shadows
and the shine of ice. Two ravens watch her,
with an air of wonder. The cold-legged heron
rises from the water to fly.
Sun yet warms a corner by the waterfall.
She does not show herself. It is time
for stories around the fire. She listens.
Sometimes she is sad. Sometimes the casket
is opened, is closed, holds something precious.
In Midgard, there are stories by the fire.
In Fensalir, there is spinning, spinning and weaving.
One tapestry ends, another begins.
The ravens swoop in to see. She says nothing.
Her eyes may yet betray laughter.