Sorry this is late.

Picking up stuff left behind.
The smell of violets and rose.
Hearing the birds sing, I pay them in kind.
Singing to those.

Those who listen to the chime of spring.
Those dancing, me and others.
I wonder just what their song will bring.
We are witch sisters and brothers.

One holds an acorn.
One holds berries so pink.
A time of bringing back from the worn.
The worn and sleepy of cold winter ink.

Ostara, a day of celebration.
We hold every year, a time to shine.
We celebrate in every nation.
Ostara, a time of bread and the finest wine.

A party for all to partake.
From midnight.
To morning wake.
We celebrate Ostara with cheery light.

From herbs and bread.
To trees and grass.
From every hair on my head.
I celebrate Ostara with green and brass.

With words spoken in truth and gold.
I say words with a bringing of love.
Even through the bold.
The bold of winter dove.

Ostara worth in my heart.
I follow in the Ostara dance.
With a beautiful start.
As I hold the candle with a good chance.

That every day is new.
That every beauty is experienced in love.
Even if far between and few.
Oh my Ostara dove.