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
