Stone, rounded in my hand
tell me your story - the secret waters
that shaped you,
veining and coursing into darkness
humming their songs
of bones, pottery shards,
stones smoothed past memory or telling
be my teacher.
Hawk, tell me what you see.
Small on the ground, I am blind.
In widening circles you write an
incantation for the far journey
in the sky. Be my teacher.
Fire, speak, if you will.
Illuminate the shadows
filling this careful house of sticks
I have built. Burn me empty and full,
teach my feet to dance.
Fire, you be my teacher.
Rain, tell me. I am listening.
Your voice is a multitude,
your story grows
in the telling. Into the mouth
the mouth of the ocean,
this song you sing.
Rain, you will be my teacher.
~My help is in the mountain~
Where I take myself to heal
The earthly wounds
That people give to me.
I find a rock with sun on it
And a stream where the water runs gentle
And the trees which one by one give me company
And so I must stay for a time
Until I have grown from the rock
And the stream is running through me
And I cannot tell myself from one lone tree.
Then I will know that nothing touches me
Nor makes me run away.
My help is in the mountain
That I take away with me.
Earth cure me. Earth receive my woe.
Rock strengthen me. Rock receive my weakness.
Rain wash away my sadness. Rain receive my doubt.
Sun make sweet my song.