The crone, wrinkled and gnarled,
with her long stringy hair,
is stirring in the forest
in her nest of leaves.
Rabbits and wolf cubs perk their ears
and the bear is arrested mid-swoop,
while fishing in the river.
She is sounding the drum,
its reverberating thrum
calling the Council of All Beings
to the river's edge.
Her drumbeat is calling me
out of the gray town.
It beckons me deep
into the forest's heart,
where all is green, and silent
and sacred.
I enter the primeval sepulchre
as the world goes still
and falls away.
The way forward is written
somewhere
within that stillness.
I need but listen closely,
to find my way.
