Brigid Does Not Come Alone

Place crocus bright beneath the flame,
where golden tongues remember spring.
Let rosemary and bay root low;
they keep the grounded center still.

Drape ivy where the shadows lean,
and fern where listening silence stays.
Around your light let green things climb,
like hope kept breathing through dark days.

If grain remains from autumn stored,
or bread still warm from hearth and hand,
lay each small offering at the base—
for Brigid does not come alone.

She comes with fire, but also bread,
with well-water and living breath;
so dress your altar like a field,
and set warm hands against cold death.

Author: Renee Newlon

I am a Turkish American writer and photographer. I work in short-form prose, poetic fragments, and photography. I don’t photograph the event; I photograph the moment after the event. A few things that stay with me: Plato’s Cave, Oberg’s Culture Shock, and Beethoven’s Ever thine. Ever mine. Ever ours. My greatest teacher was my college philosophy professor, Sister Jane Sullivan, who taught me how to think and how to see. View all posts by Renee Newlon