Leaves rustle
in
the wind
falling off
one
by one
as autumn
turns
to winter.

It's winter
now
by old counts
and ours
now too,
but winter
feels
like autumn
still,
and even spring
before it.

Why do the airs
warm our world,
and how long
will it last?

Will I still see
leaves rustle
in the
wind
as I lay
dying?

To my father,

I am so uncertain,
Was so much more.
Stumbling awkwardly
and always asking
How could it be me?
Why would it be me?
And even now
I am still so uncertain.

But it could be me,
And here is why.

My passion burns strong and fierce,
A love of learning
And striving for glory,
If only of a private sort.
To stack skills so high,
In multitudes and never lacking.
Not a jack of all trades,
But a master of many.

My craving for a father,
A man to watch over me.
Goading me, guiding me,
And sending small messages,
Loving encouragements and even just hellos.
Someone who is always there,
Even when he is not
As you so often aren’t.

My need for justice and love of family.
Holding close those who are dear,
Protecting them and treasuring them.
I gather together resources
Sharing them with them
And they me with theirs.
And always I watch
For they are my people, my tribe.

For these things you came,
An itching in the mind
That turned the pages of so many books,
That lit up the skies and rained down on me.
That swallowed me up in endless warmth.
You who are a father to me always
Were always, even when I did not know
And for that I’m worthy
For who would argue with you?
I am so uncertain
But now so certain.

Beautiful, bright lord
Forever young
Wise and many skilled
Father of the thrice-conceived
Hail to you, and honor too.
To the champion of champions,
To Lugh Samildánach.

My father, my father, my true father.
My father though not of flesh and blood,
Who guides me gently
Or sternly as needs be,
And who encourages me kindly
And so proudly.
How I love you, my father.

These scraps are yours,
Little words running through my head,
Pretty pickings and pairings,
Offering your praise.
Take them, o Lord

Manannán I feel you and I wonder,
did you teach your boy to ride the waves?
Did you show him to cut foam
with elegant prow, strong and firm?

Manannán I see you and I feel
there you are, old uncle with cap and pipe,
and there is your boy
cutting the spray on a board,
just board alone.

King over men
Lugh Lamhfháda, my lord,
fill me with flame, great passion.
Give over Imbas.
Smelt me down, liquid ore,
Make me a blade, my lord.

And the Void comes,
A yawning mass
That sings sickly lies
-- or are they truths? --
Of the coming nothing
Which will pull you down
And never let go.

But the Light comes,
A resplendent sign
Of the Lord of All,
Skills and men,
Who sings of life,
Everlasting and resplendent,
And will never let go.