
IN THE WILDWOOD
First time alone in a forest,
demons stirred my thinking,
left me trembling, frightened,
wanting to run, distracting me
from hundreds of leaf and
stone altars, made
by wind, rain and cold.
Slowing down my steps,
rhythms of earth and pulse
breathed into leaves
exchanged with trees.
I felt my breath.
I noticed lichen covered
tree stumps that looked like
small castles, heard an ethereal
echo from a distant bird.
I felt welcome, with a pull from each
being awaiting my approach.
Now when I enter, leaves are
weaved in my hair
petals of wild rose surround
my heart, seed pods dangle
down my chest.
I’ve become kindred with the woods,
sitting on a branch, resting in a nest,
married to the wilderness.

HOLDING THE BOW
Indigenous ones; those who
warm their hands in earth,
know the cycle of moon
and stories of constellations,
those who nourish each other
with plants, ecstatic dance
and sacred rituals, who guide their
children to know nature,
lead rites of passage
with communities of trust,
these are the ones to lead us.
Their ways uphold tools for navigating
a life well lived on this earth:
food, shelter, warmth, clothes, medicine
and honoring their people.
Instead of the illusionary arrows
of our bows, aiming farther
away from the origin of what
nurtures humanity.

KEEPERS OF MEDICINE
Across the mountains and plains,
buffalo, prairie dog, snake, I must call them,
search for the keepers of medicine,
ask to use what they unearthed from blessed soil.
Their labor with mud crusted hands, cannot be measured.
We have reaped the value of what they revealed,
in yellow dock, dandelion and yarrow:
the great medicines that heal.
Risking death, as they spoke to rain and thunder,
sang praises to sun, flared in rash, burned
and coughed up blood, in order to understand.
They gathered knowledge,
from each landscape and leaf,
knowing when to use a flower, when to use a root,
which ones were asking to be chosen,
chopped, boiled, swallowed in a brew.
Years of trials, the great task of listening,
through hunger, drought and birthing children,
they grew trust in the roots of autumn,
spring blossoms, birds that move seeds through air.


