Dryad Dance

Corvidophilia - The Love of Ravens

Gray rain whips the world with wind
The mountains are white, awash in mist
Above the sound of the howling storm -
The moaning of the pines, the wailing of the weather -
The ravens can still be heard calling
From treetop, to treetop; barren and clear
The sound of hollow wet bone

Do you wake up drinking darkness,
That your eye should be so black, so black
Ebony, pitch, shining like sharply cut jet
Polished to an acid edge with purpose
What do you see? What knowledge do you keep
In the darkness of that black, black eye?

They say you are a trickster, but it is wisdom
I feel behind the dipped ink of your gaze
Insight, creation, what all I will never know
For you hood yourself with a slow blink
Mystery bird the shade of nightwind
Lady of secrets, enigma on wings
You will not be known

They will find your feathers
In places you have never been
Could these be amulets, charms, sliced from the midnight sky?
Cut out with the sharpest, burning, knifewhite stars
Dusted with a silent mist of moon?
Wherever they have come from
They tumble to earth in the simple shape and seeming of Raven feathers
But they carry this strong corvidae blessing:
Shadow wings stretch as a shield above you
Sharp, onyx eyes watch as a ward over you
Constant
Unblinking
Blessed Be

And You . . .
Nature’s wanton riddle wrapped in ebony
You still sail the treetops
As black as the memory of every darkness
Missing a tail feather here and there . . .
With a cry that sounds like it will tear your throat
You alight on a branch too slender

As it breaks beneath you . . .
Your secrets splash against the sky

Black eyes blaze brilliant with
Laughter . . .
As the wild wind catches your widespread
Wings . . .

©Edwina Peterson Cross

Spin With Webs of Starlight

Dryad Prayer

Dryad Prayer

Spirit of earth, spirit of air,
spirit of fire and water,
spirit of life, spirit of prayer;
I am The Infinite’s daughter.

For a season I’ve grown
laughing and green,
sweet sap to the bone
I danced the air clean.

In a desert of red
I shimmered with soul;
I am not dead,
but part of the whole.

I return to the source
to await my next song;
I merge into the force,
dynamic and strong.

I’ll remember the place
I danced with the breeze;
I poured out my grace,
the cool comfort of trees.

Palo Verde: green wood;
I’ve given and believed,
I’ve trusted, understood
all that I’ve received.

Sun and water, earth and air,
blessing of being a part;
honored in a sacred prayer ~
the hug of a human heart.

©Edwina Peterson Cross
(For Vi)

Beneath her wrists her veins are green
Green are her gold aspen eyes
Her backbone’s sugared with sap between
Where her shoulder blades fall and rise

She opens her arms to the dark night sky
Thin fingers trembling and white
And sends to the stars a joythrilled cry
A chlorophyl spill of delight

For the night wind carries a winesweet spell
Like the piping of clear crystal flutes
She feels the enchantment circle and swell
Unbinding the grasp of her roots

The moonlight whips her long, pale hair
The darkness is caught in a trance
The forest breaths a sylvan prayer
As the Dryad arises to dance . . .

©Edwina Peterson Cross

I.

When all the people go away,
When all the talking and laughter stop,
When she is alone in silence;
The air seeps slowly full of light;
Brimming with light,
Surfeited with light,
Honey comb silence drips slowly into sinuses,
A slightly haunted darkness
Crouches by the door,
The click and whirr of machines
Marking artificial time.
When she is all alone,
Breathing honey;
When the world goes white with light,
She ceases to exist

II.

Center
They say
Bring yourself back into your body
Red, Orange, Yellow
Blood bright autumnal sunshine
Ground yourself
Deep in the earth
But, when all the people leave
She floats up
Becoming full of nothing
Filling until she is empty
Passing from ocean green,
Waves she gave for her children
Blue in her throat,
A pushing of indigo
Begins between her brows
Pouring energy fills the room
Lavender, lilac and
She whispers to white
White becoming light
Light becoming air
Air becoming gone
Possibly she never did exist
At all

III.

Child of mythic summers
Barefoot, dreaming, alone
There was no one
To explain the blood as blessing
Her rich, creative clouds of dreams
Short circuited, drained of joy
Black blood, soaking everything
Leaving hand prints that could be
Followed
Hunted and hounded
Trapped in a corner, unable to run
Held at bay by a hard, dark world
Between understanding
And the yelping of the pack
Her back up against the unyielding
Wall of life; traumatized, terrorized
The only way out
Was up
She thinned
Diluted, rarefied and faded
She left the red eyes rolling
And the sharp teeth closing on
Nothing

IV.

Woman
Without shame, in a brief
Bright space of relearned laughter
Bloomed by love
Sculpted by love
Rewritten by love
Abandoned by love
Two divided by love
Equaled and easy
Zero
Looking in the mirror
What she could not see
Confirmed it

V.

Mother
Finally, firmly anchored in existence
Whole, round, brimming creation
Three times
Nine Months
Mythical numeration
3X3=9
3X9=27
Twenty seven moons she carried
Miracles
Existing to make existence
Real to create reality
Twenty seven moons
She existed in the deepest truth
Never flickering, never fading
For she was never alone
Never in silence
The deep beat of a tiny heart
Made music that held her whole
The sound of eternity
Beating double-counter-point
To her
Heart

VI.

Birthed, blessed
Washed with love
Nurtured, nursed, nourished
She taught them to talk
And they began to sing
She taught them to walk
And they walked away
Exit throughly expected
Forecast known
Still, she is suddenly, silently
Stunned
Standing in the sound of
Nothing
Alone
Her eyes fill once again
With light
And she finds that there is
Nothing
To find

VII.

I feel a bit like it is Christmas morning and I’m waiting upstairs to go down and see what Santa brought me. I can feel the building excitement and hear the German Band Music. (OK , trust me, I come from a weird family.)

I also feel like I have a brand new beautiful hard copy of a new Particia McKillip or Charles de Lint and I just keep smelling the ‘new book’ smell and ruffling the pages instead of reading.

And then, I also feel like I am standing at the top of a ski run and I’m about to take off even though I’m pretty sure I can’t ski it. “Raske” my friend Skadi says. Maintain, Mellow Out and Bend your knees and you’ll ride it to the bottom just fine. Off we go!