The wren on the farthing coin I study.
Four of them made a penny.
Hard to leave my chair by the fire
this winter night, I think of old money.
My thoughts stretch out,
free of my body,
survey the cold, hard fields of February.
Further back I go,
by way of twig and cherry,
to find Weland the smith,
at work in the cave he made his forge,
watch his hammer on anvil clang and spark,
thuds shake the roots of his hidden valley.
A sword made by him worth more than gold.
A warrior weighs it in his hand,
longs to be in a tale forever told.
Further back, closer in,
my spirit walks, bare as the trees,
stood tall above me.
A snap here, creak there,
in the icy air.
Crows sweep down,
caw over the cold, hard fields of February.
Snowdrop, bluebell, daffodil wait to sprout.
Birds that migrate will not return
till branches bear leaf and berry.