On St. Brigid’s Eve the house stays still Cold pressed tight against the pane We set out cloth by habit and will And ask the dark not to break our name The fire remembers what we forget Milk on the stove bread rising slow She walks these rooms with mercy yet Where tired hands learned how to sow We do not ask much just warmth to hold A steady road a faithful sign For hearts get weary before they get old And hope needs tending same as a vine Come morning winter may