Spirit Wolf

When he died,

she cut off her hair.

The wind lashed the cabin walls;

it howled around the eaves,

like her wild spirit, inconsolable

at the loss of her mate.

A lone wolf came,

night after night.

At first, she stayed indoors,

listening to him howl.

Then she went out

and howled into the night herself:

loss, sorrow, bereavement,

no solace anywhere.

He would howl back,

an answering ululation.

In time, there were nights

when they would howl together.

In this way, the winter passed,

a sharing between two lone creatures.

As the one-year passage

of her husband's death approached,

the wolf stopped coming.

He knew that she was strong again,

had found her footing,

was making her way.

Sometimes, a wolf is

the kindest being in the world.

Sometimes he brings a message

from the land of spirits.

Spirit-wolf, shape-shifter,

brother, friend:

we listen

for your call.

True story. Told to me by the woman who howled.  Shared with the good folk at Poets United in the Poetry Pantry, where you will find good reading on Sunday morning.

Being the Observer

Star dreamer,

singer of ocean songs,

gatherer of beach rocks,

I whisper to cedar,

commune with ravens,

send love to the wolves,

give deep bows to the sunrise,

wrap morning fog 

in ecstasy

around my throat,

hobble along the shore,

   eyes ever alert    

for treasures.

I am at the time of Watching,

of Being the Observer.

I sift and sort 

a plentitude 

of memories,

noting with gratitude 

the winding path

that brought me here.

I am a Gatherer,

bundling up

life's daily gifts,

with reverence

and wonder.

for  Rommy's prompt at Real Toads:  to give ourselves a job title. Since I am retired, my current job is observing this world, so full of beauty, human-created disasters and earth-borne delights.

LOVE AND LET GO

photo by Chris Lowther

One more beloved dog,
one more farewell,
as Menina, beach companion,
moves across the Island
and out of our lives.

May she find green pastures.
May she lie down in muddy ponds,
as she so loves to do.
May there be “treats” and chewy orange balls.
May her new family be kind
and loving.

The love we gave her goes with her.
The one lesson learned
this lifetime is:
Love and let go.
Love and let go.

So many small voyagers,
child and canine,
have crossed my path,
then gone on to other lives
and other realms.

I send along a bag of treats
and balls for her.
With tears, one more time,
I love and let go.

Menina belongs to friends whose life changes mean a new home for Menina. Chris and I have been her "aunties". We couldn’t find a home for her in Tofino, so she is heading across the Island – to a place in the country, where we hope she will run free like the wind. Walking the beach will not be the same without her.

A Magical Sea

Along the Medicine Way I journeyed,

dipped my toes in a magical sea, 

laughed with the wind, danced in the rain,

and my soul was returned to me.

I bow to the sky, I run with the wind,

the raindrops cleanse my thirsting heart.

Water gives all creatures life,

is sacred from the very start.

The great bowl of the sky above,

the earth below, so brown and fair,

humble and mothering, offer gifts

to humans, all so unaware.

Wheeling seabirds,  laughing waves,

are luminous under a midnight moon.

I chart my path where there is no path,

knowing I'll head homeward soon.

We are born in water. At the end,

to the dying, water is our last  friend.

I lived in love with the ocean's roar.

My heart could not have asked for more.

For Sumana's prompt at Midweek Motif: Water

Red for all the Broken Hearts

First Nations Dancers

source

rhythmic feet

dancing at the powwow,

red thunderbird

on her black robe

remembering

a sister, a cousin,

a mother, a daughter,

the painful past

that set them walking

along the highway of tears

on which they

disappeared

wear red today

for all the broken hearts

for all the lost dreams

for all the families grieving

rhythmic feet

dancing at the powwow

remembering

those who once

were here

wear red today

for all the broken hearts

Today  we are to wear red in awareness of over a thousand missing and murdered aboriginal women and girls in Canada. Four commissions have not brought any answers or resolutions. The movement's facebook page is here.

The Call of the Drum

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 grey 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.

A poem from 2013, picked at random for sharing with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United, where you will find fine reading to accompany your coffee of a Sunday morning.

Trade

source

Chugging home in the boat

from work at Kakawis,
"basket of berries",
the Nuu chah nulth elder beside me pointed
to the long jut of land
that is Stubbs Island,
site of the first white settlement
in Tofino.

"They "traded" that land from us

for a barrel of molasses," she said,

then fell silent,

two hundred years of history

eloquent between us.

source

for Susan's prompt at Midweek Motif: Trade/Barter. Stubbs Island was the first white settlement in Tofino, beginning in 1860/1861, though First Nations have lived here for ten thousand years. It is now privately owned, with beautiful gardens, and every May long weekend villagers are boated over and allowed to wander the grounds.