Presenting the poetry, books, and photographs of Nancy Wood, 1936-2013
From Hollering Sun, 1972, by Nancy Wood
Earth woman with hands
That shape the bread of time.
Earth woman with
Pumpkin-seed earrings and
Bracelets of wild plum.
Your house is made of summer.
Your children are the crops
Of all good seasons
Growing strong
In the house of earth woman
Who weaves the thread of life.
From Many Winters, 1974, by Nancy Wood
When the hand of winter gives up its grip to the sun
And the river’s hard ice becomes the tongue to spring
I must go into the earth itself
To know the source from which I came.
Where there is a history of leaves
I lie face down upon the land.
I smell the rich wet earth
Trembling to allow the birth
Of what is innocent and green.
My fingers touch the yielding earth
Knowing that it contains
All previous births and deaths.
I listen to a cry of whispers
Concerning the awakening earth
In possession of itself.
With a branch between my teeth
I feel the growth of trees
Flowing with life born of ancient death.
I cover myself with earth
So that I may know while still alive
How sweet is the season of my time.
From War Cry on a Prayer Feather, 1979, by Nancy Wood
There are those who hear the voice of wheels
And call it music.
And those who hear a symphony
In butterfly wings.
There are those who ride a highway
And call it beauty.
And those who follow the straight line
Of a spider’s silver thread.
There are those who define living
As existence only
And those who cannot live
Except to define existence first.
There are those who run in circles
And those who simply run
And those who find movement
In the greatest stillness.
Go one way or the other.
Fight for wheels or butterfly wings.
Travel on highways or spider threads.
Take up the cause of movement.
Bury stillness with the dead.
Abandon home for the popular place.
Kill the roots by girdling the tree.
Those who know the greatest comfort
Take not the greatest ease.
Those who prosper most
Prosper more with less.
From Many Winters, 1974, by Nancy Wood
There are no dark times.
There are only people with
sawdust in their eyes.
No wonder they look at
the great rolling land and see
only doors and windows.
No wonder they look at
the tall mountains and see
only a way to make them tame.
No wonder they look at
the endless sky and see
only a journey to the moon.
There are no dark times.
There are only moments which
are discolored like
sand which is wet with rain.
There are only moments which
give pain like
the sting of a bumblebee.
There are only moments which
are as cruel as
the death of an eagle by a gun.
There are no dark times.
I know this because
Tomorrow receives the best in time
Or else it would not come.
From Sacred Fire, 1998, by Nancy Wood
The Earth is all that lasts.
We who have been asleep for years
return to plant seeds in abandoned gardens.
We summon the rain and beg for the sun
to release its energy to our care.
The Earth is all that lasts.
We who were flattened by our inability
to rise above the wreckage of the past
are eating shadows
in order to stay alive.
The Earth is all that lasts.
We who were invisible, except
to those with similar vision,
stand here possessed by our old lives.
We are unwilling to disappear from our origins.
We have replaced shame with serenity,
doubt with desire.
Our skin is bursting with new muscle.
We are one with snowmelt and with Fire.