Under the Ancestral Quilt.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
The crow is a messenger,
the whirlwind's mother, deliverer of confirmation.
When you hear one cawing over the refrain of the Zephyr, think of me.
The corn dance is a celebration of the harvest and acknowledgement that the seed fruit is most precious of all.
We danced in a circle on the harvest's last golden day, moved in opposition to the artifice of the clock. It was September, forever ago.
The muse is the daughter of a goddess and a god.
When her name is Clio, she is history, the child of the ninth night, champion of remembered things.
I have a message. I have seed. I am inspired to remember.
Soft and Falling to Enfold You.
Winter falls on Crow's Cottage, one day of it like a willful siege, another day of it like an ancestral quilt. One approaches without welcome from the borderlands of THE OTHERS. One is soft and original like falling flakes of snow, pleasant to behold, and enfolding.
Are you a student? The master?
Can you believe you've come this far to not be there, even now?
You know there is only one destination.
You claim to be ready to knock on the creaking door
of the black coach. Who will ask you for the ticket to ride?
When you are sick, we shall not abandon you. We shall not hector those who arrive to adore you. Your tumors and broken bones are like fallen leaves on the forest floor. The bud and the shoot rise above it and shall comfort you.
When you are joyous, we shall not turn away in envy.
We shall not turn the looking glass toward self.
We shall dance and sing 'till the morning come,
lift up your triumphs to the echoing highlands and the heavenlies.
O, Wondrous Day, the Sun.
O child, clinging to innocence: We want you to find what you're looking for. We do. Old one in your gray gloom: You, too. Many here among us pave a way for your heart's desire, slay the ravenous wolf in the shadows. We know the chance may not come again.
Experience in time reveals a truth:
Some of you shall find the wondrous moment in the Sun.
Some of you shall not fall prey to the beast.
A feather from the crow rises from a clay cup on a shelf
of cherry and butternut. The feather fluffs and spreads,
stands like a sentinel, keeping her view.
She is posted on a watchtower and instructed to sound a warning:
Here come the civilized men!
Prepare for them.
They strive to seize the day and pretend to engulf us.
The winter cannot last. The seed corn we stored deep in the dry cellar on the day after the corn dance is dormant but imbued with potential, the promise of new life.
The muse is daughter of a goddess and a god,
the champion of remembered things.
I have a message. I have seed.
The freshly fallen snow outside the windows of Crow's Cottage
glistens with diamonds. It is sure to melt, become water.