Hill Medicine

She knew the sun
          the burnt crook of nose
the dirt of fingernails
          the voices on the evening wind

She knew the secret
          of the green leaves
the churning waters
          that carried fears away

She let the wind speak to her
          not always listening
the stout wood barn door
          shut out lots of noise

the force she felt flew
          from her slender fingers
inherited from the medicine
          in her mother's hands

Not all voices familiar
          some spoke from plants
some once bore children
          none hers

They rose with the smoke
          of campfires uncounted
they spoke to her soul
          in their own private language

It smelled in her nose
          tasted her tongue
the dust in her eyes made her see
          the hill was alive

The deer heard, rabbit too
          the bear and antelope,
snake eagle and fox
          they all understood

Understood nothing
          without her
the untangled umbilical cord
          returned to her unchallenged

What sacrifices could be offered
          to give the answers she needed
the waning moon so cold
          to a lonely woman

They found her--twist of dried root
          bowl of spiderwebs
nothing to claim
          riches in handfulls of dirt

Cleansing crept like a sliver of light
          into the sweat lodge of her mind
upward with a steaming prayer
          down again in the palms of her hands

In her but not of her
          belonging to the ancient mountains,
the far distant sea, a secret
          held in a rock in the river

Dirt, hair, bone and blood,
          behind the wheel, in front
geography unimportant,
          just home.

(c)Jack Callan and Mary Curro

published in Skipping Stones 2007