Thirteen Below

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.

Spring is coming, this we know. We may not live to see it, but that's no reason to lay down and give in.

We sing. The cardinal sings.

Come on, Spring.

Hal an tow, jolly rumble-O:

we were up long before the day-O,

to welcome in the Summer,

to welcome in the May-O,

for Summer is a-coming in,

and Winter's gone away-O!