From Sacred Fire, 1996, by Nancy Wood From the deep blanket of winter, I am. From the fertile seeds of spring, I am. From the unfolding leaves of summer, I am. From the ripening fruits of autumn, I am. If winter's song is one of sleep, sing it. If spring's song is one of anticipation, sing it. If summer's song is one of fullness, sing it. If autumn's song is one of change, sing it. What you are, I am. What I am, you will be. Where summer goes, I follow. Where winter goes, we walk together. The longing of this old woman is satisfied by the loving of that old man.
seasons
The Shortest Day/The Longest Day – June 2022
From Shaman’s Circle, 1996, by Nancy Wood
December 21
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.
June 21
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.
Earth Woman – April 2021
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.
When the hand of winter gives up its grip on the sun – March 2021
From Many Winters, 1974, by Nancy Wood
When the hand of winter gives up its grip on 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.
Joined – December 2019
From Shaman’s Circle, 1996, by Nancy Wood
Our connection to nature is nothing more
than a deep conversation,
like that between two related stones or trees,
an expanding bond of kinship
that sharpens perceptions and catches
sunlight devouring ice on streams,
a refrain of winter’s resistance
To the unconditional surrender of spring.
Who knows the meaning behind a conversation
between two partners of the soul,
so perfectly joined that they seem as natural
as veins on leaves? Our connection
to nature is a magical cord that offers solace,
granting us witness to the birth of stars.