For the Minstrels

Out in a high wind,
And looking for roots again,
I dug up a daydream story —
Imbued it with meaning and myth.
A sun-warm snake,
Another symbol.

How we needed these:
The strings,
The membrane,
The minstrel voices
That threw the windows wide.
Winged nomads,
Growing strange
And weaving with the calendar crawl.

A dancing moment’s edge
Pulls deep from groundwater –
But not for me now.
Let the weathered taproot
Reap a gift of September –
Golden and sweet.
If I could pray
Or believe,
I would beg for it now,
And let each space
Between sole and unsettled dust
Ask the questions.

In the shadows,
I will forge a new vein,
Become a channel for wind.
Shift my bones
Among the prairie grasses –
Let it come to me.
Always at the core,
There is the devouring,
The incubation of this melody –
Cutting a visual arc,
The meadowlark told me
It was true.

Hopfoot now,
Happy muse.
I will gather the amber,
Crack bloodstone
And feed the vibrating strings.
Let the maze recede
With the water.
A goblet full of red wine,
Cast off the disguise
And let honey white skin
Glow with the harvest moon high.

A battered golden circle,
Tarnished wing,
A single note, heavy by the creek.
Let me breathe into it now.
It rustles in the understory,
Corner of the eye –
Robins gather
An oak leaf whisper,
Leapers in the grass –
My congregation of familiars,
Allies in this last-ditch effort.
Circling power
Harnesses western wind,
Pulls it along,
And another serpent sister
Speaks it.

These wild roots and conduits –
They are all I have,
But take them.
I choose to channel
This wind,
If it be more than myth –
To the minstrels.
Let masked power
Become a message
Whispered to the winged watchers.
Let them carry these letters.

The minstrels split the air,
The ear,
With an echo –
Warm wood,
Silver lines,
Green heart,
Let the change
Be manifest.



About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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