Dance, children, dance
as I sing a song of Summer:
children dance, children dance.
The thirteenth of February: Old Imbolc Day. Temperature: 13 below.
Swathed in wraps, the kid and I sit on the front porch waiting for the school bus, singing songs of Beltane.
Call it defiance.
Call it delusion.
Call it sympathetic magic.
We're not the only ones singing of Summer. In the back yard, a redbird trills, proudly delineating this year's breeding territory with a magic song.
Here in Paganistan, our cardinals winter down south in balmy Iowa, but round about Imbolc (New Style), the males come back and start the New Wheel turning. On the front porch, we sing along, turning a Wheel of our own.
Or maybe it's the same one.
