On the eve of spring light lingers longer on the Ides Of March and thoughts tend to dwell on new buds, sprouts, gardens, the greening and things Irish that Mother has given to the children. Ages untold carved in stone haunting beauty filled memories of times and words unspoken, yet known in the flow of blood, bone, heart, mind and Spirit of the universe with a slap of the seas that touch the shores and ever call one home. The air is rich with winter's last chill and sweet damp fog that cause the heart drum like thunder thrill a fiddlers dream in the pipes of the winds. Ah, the glory of the terrible beauty of the All.
The roses of a past year only rest as in dreams with roots held warm deep in the earth to gain anew in the light of spring.
Indeed this life is a gift and a blessing each unique single moment a clear calling as we are in the passing and being.
Indeed it is good to be about and poetic in prose on the Eve Of Spring, The Ides Of March And An Irish Thing in the roses of time.
As ever be well, Stephen Craig Rowe
