Inspiring Enchantment & Illumination with Tarot & Intuitive Guidance

A Gathering of Spirits

(A Gathering Of Spirits)

by Paula Gunn Allen

Because we live in the browning season
the heavy air blocking our breath,

and in this time when living

is only survival, we doubt the voices

that come shadowed on the air,

that weave within our brains

certain thoughts, a motion that is soft,

imperceptible, a twilight rain,

soft feather’s fall, a small body

dropping into its nest, rustling, murmuring,

settling in for the night.

Because we live in the hard-edged season,
where plastic brittle and gleaming shines

and in this space that is cornered and angled,

we do not notice wet, moist, the significant

drops falling in perfect spheres

that are the certain measures of our minds;

almost invisible, those tears,

soft as dew, fragile, that cling to leaves,

petals, roots, gentle and sure,

every morning.

We are the women of daylight; of clocks and steel
foundries, of drugstores and streetlights,

of superhighways that slice our days in two.

Wrapped around in glass and steel we ride

our lives; behind dark glasses we hide our eyes,

our thoughts, shaded, seem obscure, smoke

fills our minds, whisky husks our songs,

polyester cuts our bodies from our breath,

our feet from the welcoming stones of earth.

Our dreams are pale memories of themselves,

and nagging doubt is the false measure of our days.

Even so, the spirit voices are singing,
their thoughts are dancing in the dirty air.

Their feet touch the cement, the asphalt

delighting, still they weave dreams upon our

shadowed skulls, if we could listen.

If we could hear.

Let’s go then. Let’s find them. Let’s
listen for the water, the careful gleaming drops

that glisten on the leaves, the flowers. Let’s

ride the midnight, the early dawn. Feel the wind

striding through our hair. Let’s dance

the dance of feathers, the dance of birds.

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  • October 3, 2009, 11:17 am Erin


    Today I was pondering my struggle with the big city that I spend three days of my week in. I asked the trees around me why I suffered so much and they told me: "because to you, it feels dead."

    Then I came home and read this poem.

    This is how God sounds when She talks to me.

  • October 3, 2009, 2:25 pm Beth Owl's Daughter

    Me too.
    – Beth