From Wild Love, 1996, by Nancy Wood (unpublished) The tree bent, but did not break. The river swelled, but did not flood. Fires raged, and in the seas, the great fish died. All was desolation and ash. Yet the earth survived with the patience necessary for survival and her wounds healed, slowly, for she was meant to continue, against all odds. Women tend to notice such persistence. My worn-out path with you is dangerous, and I have fallen often, bruised and angry, certain that I should go on my way alone. As the river needs a rock, so do I need you. As the tree depends on sunlight, so do I depend on you. That is why I am holding on, even when I think of letting go.
When daylight shuts her eyes – September 2022
From Many Winters, 1974, by Nancy Wood
When daylight shuts her eyes And the sky is fast asleep, The moon comes up with half a face And the stars put holes in the night.
Feather – May 2022
From Shaman’s Circle, 1996, by Nancy Wood
The bluebird and I were friends, the kind that depend on one another
to reaffirm life’s patterns and to embrace the cleansing wind.
He awakened me with a song each morning and in his voice I recognized
his wider experience of rising above difficulty to reach
The purity of clouds and wind and sun. In my garden I offered him
water and seed and acceptance, never knowing if he understood
My simple gifts were meant to praise him. Then one day upon the ground
I noticed a single bluebird feather. What deeper gift can a bird
Give than what enables him to fly? Or to sing the song of his creation
to me, forever rooted to the ground?