The Caldron of Dagda is running dry.
The good god gave his all
his hearth grows cold and empty
his heart is older than his arms.
The Librarian stopped by today.
She brought my sweetness, Ilsa.
The gurgling goddess girl sparkles.
Her mama is smart and warm.
They give me hope,
striding out into a world
that I may glimpse
but only in twilight fog.
The whip-smart bearded boy
will be at their side
with bellows and coals of durable flame.
They fetch water, the broth of all the world.
Ilsa shall nurse the good god
from the new plenty of the old kettle.
"Thibbet" she cries, "Eat and drink
the fullness and fatness!"
My eyes burn with the smoke
of brittle oak and birch bark and snapping pine.
My dutch oven savors pie and biscuits
and Dagda reborn.
Dagda is a green man.
Grown from barley and hogs,
cheese and hops, potatoes and rutabagas,
honey and apples, bread and jam.
His bees, his beetles,
his breath on the dew-painted grass.
He is strong in the rains.
He laughs in the gales.
I speak of Dagda, the good god.
Don't be fooled.
This good god is only what we make of him.
The earth endures, we may not.