*Meant to post this last night, but I was too exhausted from the festivities!
Tis the rough nights of the year,
The ‘out of time,’ ‘the hinge of the year,’
My skin itches, my spirit wants flight,
So on with my bearskin! Into the night!
If my footprints fade in the snow,
Would I return? Well, I don’t know!
The Antlered Weaver, Huntress of Souls,
Visits the hearths of many, on Her patrols.
The Bear Mother stirs new life in the world beneath,
Stirs the mountains, stirs the heath.
The Midnight spirit frosts the air,
As the Avian One flies, His call beckons everywhere!
So on this eve of twelve, I do hope you find,
A good fire, good food, good drink, and a calmer mind,
For in the time of no-time and misrule,
The poor become rich, the wise become the fool.
May your nights be filled with laughter and divination true,
And, I wish a truly Gute Rauchnact to you!!