#4

Day of the Dead (11/6/16)

Always
when the wind blows like this
and the leaves
are giving themselves
to a new life,
I am here.
Kneeling.
Holding the blue rock
to my chest.
Bending over in the woods
in mourning.

Melancholy bats at my ears
My chest curls into
the tight fist
of the snake.
I try to hear my heart beat
beneath those cold
slippery coils.

We feed them
by candle light.
We say their names.
The ones we have lost
all of them.

They were glorious, and,
how they suffered,
and, hurt us too.

The stories come
with flocks of silver-black Grackles
mounting in the trees outside
the window.
there are crumbs for everyone.
We must feed the dead.

-Llora H. Kressmann

#3

Returning to the Island on the Regional Retreat (10/23/16)

And the stillness settles in
like a lamp
like the light
like the safe circle of return.

In spite of the November wind
whose got things going
the grass
the leaves
the river
awe-fully stirred up
awe-fully awake
awe-fully alive.

Now you see it-
the leaves
picked brightly from the trees
are doing cartwheels
across the lawn
just because
it feels good.

Now you feel it-
the toe dipped into
the still water
has taken you over
on the inside.

Ancient pools of knowing there.
They are bubbling up.
This sun
this star
this watery entry
inside my chest.
The island within.

-Llora H. Kressmann

#2

On Vision Quest (9/19/16)

In the wilderness
the dance begins

The tide of oneself
returns to shore
beaconed by your prayers
beaconed by the truth.

-Llora H. Kressmann

#1

The Desert (9/15/16)

The tears
the tears
they fell
on the red parched earth

and turned to stars

that rang
that rang
that rang
at your arrival

-Llora H. Kressmann