Palettal Prose: Scribe of Sands

Sand, stones, salt, shells.                   What we each do,

Where I belong, in the dunes           according to call,

rearranging the world,                       husked of ambition,

carrying the elements                        to bring life

here and there,                                    back into balance.

listening for the music                       How we each pull

of relationship.                                    on the sheet of horizon,

Where else should I be,                     to remake the bed-rock,

but asking questions with fingers   to right the rock bed,

thrust into diatoms of silica?            that it may offer carbon

An infinity                                             to the trees,

of pulverized bodies                            that they may offer oxygen

speaks to my nerves                            to the birds. Tonight,

glistening millenial light.                   with paw-prints

I am a scribe of sands                         in these same

these hands                                           deep hills of sand,

related by tribe, by species                in the deepest spaces

to those that painted a pride            of night,

of lions on cave walls                          stalking these same dreams.

at Chauvet, 35,000 years past.

~Bonnie Morrissey, We’Moon


Palettal Prose: Wild Woman Stalks

Wild Woman stalks the corners

of my heart

her keen eye discerning,

nose ever sniffing

her fangs patient and poised

knowing what in the name of Life

must be consumed

She lives deeply in the pulse

of Life/Death/Life

She plants seeds, offers nurturance,

but does not spare the blade

in the Season of Reaping.

She knows the Grand Cycle

knows Her place as it shifts along the hoop

She dances The Wheel, returning Her bones to the earth below

to feed all those from whom She has nursed her own existence

the Dance of the Wild–She lives inside me

so as i wander in wonder amidst the cycle

i offer songful prayer to the bodies of the healers

i pull for my plate of harvest into tinctures

the blood that i spill to create is always my own,

from this body or that,

always mine

and forever Sacred.

Wild Woman Stalks

Palettal Prose: Speak to Me

Bring it on,

you shadowy

dark thing.

Give it to me.

Right here.

Right now.

Spread your black wings

and give me

the truth.

Whatever it is

I can handle it.

I can handle you,

the shadowy ugly moth

fluttering in the cage of my chest.

You have been fluttering for years.

Banging against the bars of my heart.

Come here–let me have a look see

at your beady naked eyes.

Ah, so you are scared too.

~Heidi Hewett