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.
Presenting the poetry, books, and photographs of Nancy Wood, 1936-2013
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.
From War Cry on a Prayer Feather, 1979, by Nancy Wood
I wish the quiet heart.
Forced to choose a separate world
I crawl in order to stand alone.
I wish the quiet heart.
An exile from my borrowed land
I search for a place to call home.
I wish the quiet heart.
I wish the quiet land.
All around me quiet.
All around me peaceful.
All around me lasting.
All around me home.
From Dancing Moons, 1995, by Nancy Wood
Things that remember themselves
are not forgotten, but rise on wings
of experience and paint our minds
with the visions of our ancestors.
Things that remember themselves are pictures
without form and words without a tongue.
They give meaning to what we thought
we had forgotten in our youth.
Things that remember themselves give light
to the uncertain paths we used to take,
bringing beauty to the house
of our ripening old age.
From War Cry on a Prayer Feather, 1979, by Nancy Wood
I give to you this life
which is not the only life I have.
I am the forest living and dying.
I am the melancholy of falling leaves.
I am eternity in green.
I am water flowing strongly
Not in the lifetime of one man only
But down the rocks of generation
Across old deserts of humiliation
I run in anticipation toward the sea.
I give to you this life
which is the outer garment only.
I have clothed myself in riches
Sewn by hands in praise of home.
I am made of pollen and wings and bone.
I am wind reflected in moonlight.
I am ice crying out for food.
I am fire embedded in stone.
I am fields released by sun.
I give to you this life
claimed by what I do not own.
FromĀ War Cry on a Prayer Feather, 1979, by Nancy Wood
To live one must make a living.
In making a living we lose our faces
And see instead the images
Of what we have become.
If only
If only
Life did not become a business.