Poetry Sunday: "Song for Anna"

Today is Candlemas, where Christians celebrate the presentation of Jesus at the Temple, and pagans long ago celebrated the goddess Brigid (and the feast day of St. Brigid was yesterday), and some Wiccans today will be celebrating at Imbolc, or a variation of any number of pagan holidays. It's also Groundhog's Day. It's one of those times when we can almost perceive the shifting of the seasons. It's not spring yet, but it will be soon.

Candlemas is a feast day that speaks to me. Candlemas celebrates the presentation of Jesus at the temple. It's the last feast holiday that references Christmas. We could see it as the final festival of Christmas, even though most of us have had the decorations packed away since even before Epiphany.  In fact, some traditions tell us that whatever decorations we don't have packed away by the end of Epiphany on Jan. 6 have to stay up until Feb. 2.

Finally!  A reason to be leisurely putting away the trees and twinkly lights!

One year I preached on the topic of the presentation of Jesus at the temple.  I focused on Simeon and Anna, another set of elderly people who begin at the perimeter of our Christmas stories and move to the center.  Most churches focus on the youth--the fiery younger prophets, the Virgin Mary, the young Jesus, the energetic Paul.  Most churches approach the youth as the future of the church and the elders as people who get in the way.

For those with eyes to see and ears to hear, there are Bible texts that tell a different tale.  Last year, I created several poems that centered around Anna, and then I made this sketch a few days later:

Here is one of the poems.  It's in the form of a villanelle, which often feels forced to me.  Nonetheless, one the rare occasions when I finish one, I do feel like I've accomplished something major:

Song for Anna

In this temple of white whiskers, old bones, and setting sun,

I water the plants, feed the cats, and sweep the stone floor.
The work of a prophetess is never done.

The length of tasks can leave one stunned.
For novices, I make a list of every daily chore
in this temple of white whiskers, old bones, and setting sun.

In the afternoon, there is wool to be spun,
and other work that tends to bore.
The work of a prophetess is never done.

For high holy days, the purifying war must be won.
We will find every unclean spore
In this temple of white whiskers, old bones, and setting sun.

We don’t even think of having fun.
If we stop this work, we will be shown the door.
The work of a prophetess is never done.

The background noise makes me want to run.
The children cry, the animals bleat, and the elders roar.
In this temple of white whiskers, old bones, and setting sun
The work of a prophetess is never done.