From Shaman’s Circle, 1996, by Nancy Wood
O sun, the father of us all, maker of ripe flowers, creator
of fat corn, return this day to our part of the shrinking sky.
Your journey to the south is now complete and we pray to you
to remember the drear, dark days of winter caught between
Your strong fingers struggling to release the earth from sleep. In this
long gasp of icy silence, all creatures find renewal, a pale hope
That spring will not forget to come this year, nor will birds forget to lay eggs
heavy with the yolk of generation.
Now the earth lies panting in the rich blood of summer, and you are content,
O sun, father of full orchards and the restlessness of elk. We observe
Your deep shadows and hear the laughter of leaves green with continuity,
but we are not deceived by the smoothness of our ripe landscape.
Even the longest day contains the seeds of winter and on the wind we hear
the song that icicles sing to stay awake. The longest day is merely
A pause between the places where our lives are lived, and in its fullness
we dance for the right of bumblebees to gather distant honey.