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The Woman Who is With Me
I should draw breath
of fire into lungs,
a chanting ritual built
upon drum beat and smoke.
Her soft tanned, leather dress
flows with many hands of making,
her hair a flutter of feathers.
Upon my cold, shivering body
laid deep into the earth
she covers me with a blanket
old as death itself.
Knelt at my crown she whispers
as tiny bells in the trees—
This is your season of listening.
of fire into lungs,
a chanting ritual built
upon drum beat and smoke.
Her soft tanned, leather dress
flows with many hands of making,
her hair a flutter of feathers.
Upon my cold, shivering body
laid deep into the earth
she covers me with a blanket
old as death itself.
Knelt at my crown she whispers
as tiny bells in the trees—
This is your season of listening.
Written by Eerie
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Eerie's final poem, The Woman Who Is With Me, is a metaphor of acceptance and depiction of both our Mother Earth and the Shamanism so prevalent in ancient rituals of medicine. Into the Mother's arms are we laid for our season of listening, a brilliant metaphor for dreams and the prophetic messages within the sleep-stage of her transitory Death.
The imagery of the tanned hide indicative of indigenous clothing made with "many hands" paints a portrait of primordial artisan crafting. Her hair "a flutter of feathers" is revered among natives and symbolize honor, power, wisdom, trust, strength, and freedom. Aboriginal tribes believed that feathers carry messages from their ancestors in the form of guidance and inspiration for life.
The smoke, the drums, the ritual itself represents the liberation of her Spirit from its gilded cage of bones. Death is not merely an end but a transition, a sacred corridor between doorways of change from the season of speaking to one of listening.
Every post I have made about Eerie engulfs me in her Spirit. I feel her presence so strongly that I cannot help by cry and rejoice at the same time. I believe with everything that she is letting us know that she is with us, loves us, and is proud of us all for carrying on in honor of her.
And if you open your heart when reading her poetry, you will feel her too, like the vibration of tiny bells in the trees. . .
