The Gift of Return

With billhooks hung, ‘tis time for wool to be spun
A charm against the north wind’s chill
The threshing floor cleaned, and frosted fields gleaned
Draws the tomcat from the warm sill

The prized draft pair, commanding ploughshare
Truly the farmstead’s boast
Both beast and burden, hence to barn turned in
Trading the yoke for farrier’s post

The grove of stately oak, has shrugged off its cloak
Upon a drifting sea of hearty oaknut
A feast bound with rime, to fatten hoary swine
Should there be no glimpse of the hart’s scut

Thankful, a sheaf we will leave for the Helljӓger’s steed
Before Frau Holle makes her bed
For full stores we prayed, once tributes were paid
The last of the grain for our bread

Hold close good kin, blessed with love within
As the Yule Father holds close his wife
Until spring flowers bud, nourished upon autumn’s blood
Sanctified by winter’s cold knife

-J.B. Weyland