We drink from wells
dug by hands of old;
by ancient fire circles,
we gather against the cold.
Though the flames,
have faded into coals,
the morning star is here,
a season to behold.
By dawn we walk on trails
not yet tread;
we are rising from the dead.
Memories of the past,
pentacles carved in ash,
turn unto the place of spring,
the movements of
a black bird’s wings.
Stir the cauldron of rebirth
for the seasons of the earth,

Morning dew
like a mother’s tears,
mysteries wake softly
in the dawning of the year.
Morning light,
the way is shown;
though our footsteps have faded,
our trail is still here.
Night has passed:
oh rise these weary bones,
rise from the sleeping stones;
through the forest and the fields,
new life shall be revealed.
Turn unto the well of spring,
the early morning robin brings,
a brighter song of rebirth,
for the seasons of the earth.