No man, when he hath lighted a candle, putteth in a secret place, neither under a bushel, but on a candlestick, that they which come in may see the light.
Some souls are born with seeds of the wild carried in their
pouches, seeking to plant where the pavement cracks, seeking
to split apart the deadness, seeking to bring the wild fruit back,
to feed all hungry souls.
~Renee Hummel, from We’Moon
Snake medicine is with us.
We can pretend our skin is not shedding,
we can attempt to remain underground, curled up and quaking,
we can refuse to digest our life and suffer indigestion.
Or we can embrace the magic of our transmutation–
Chew on our life, swallow and savor it,
Slither out of our skin and leap out of ruts with passion,
Swirl into new experiences and dance,
Then feel the sun on our skin and dream.
-Gloria Rohlfs, 2011
in a time of fireclouds and ancient glacial melt,
what we need is ice:
a tempest of composure.
since we’ve always know
a lie and we can weatherwork
with our emotions:
and the incessant need
of pendants to set the world on fire
(see where it’s gotten us)
with our ice of clarity, our tintinabulation
of ice bells, striking chords from stalactites
of anger that have tightened
to harp weft and harpsichord tune.
we are tiger tines in ice caves teething out as musical crystals
of snow music rechilling the biomes
with our measured breath puffs
as wind mages in map corners of yore.
this is where the fury
from the many and sundry violations of this age
comes in handy, is the ice medicine the earth requires.
stop playing with your sticks and kindling, boys;
it’s time for fancier tricks, dancier licks at ice guitars,
turning molten anger to new clarity caves whose acoustics
carry melodies of re-formation to restructure what was almost lost.
not a time for heedless fire of feckless lightning,
a time for alignment and steeling, restructuring to core.
our emanating wholeness re-coheres the music of the spheres
within the world waters. it can make us whole.