In the Hands of the Elders

At night I circle with the Elders Eyelids close, body descends My spirit lifts skyward I call to them in vespers Requesting invitation I ask them all the questions that burn As solar flares in my heart As they kindle fire in the South  The speak in my dreams They speak as I trace the shape  Of a serpentine rainbow on the brick wall I ask them  I ask them  I ask them  They answer And I take their medicine back to my people What I am told in my dreams Is for you They teach me the old ways My hands the willing vessel of Their Ceremony …….. The image in this post is of my grandfather’s hands, caressing the wheat in his field. James Stock, my mother’s father. Grandpa Jim is an elder who has truly become an elder. He serves simply by being who he is, no need to prove or keep up appearances. He harvests Nettle with me and my son, all our hands in her prickly wonder. Image by my mother, Susan Trnka

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