Smudge Sticks
Two poems debate the beauty and borrowing of culture and medicine.
Smudge Stick
I wander into my garden where
Sage and echinacea grow
The sage is oily, pungent, strong
As I slide my fingers along its stems
And rub my face and arms
Its spice rings around my nose
And fills my brain with sweet dreams.
Asking for a sprig from each bough
I bundle them with mint and rose
Lavender and a twig of rosemary too
Then wrap them artfully with care
So each flower shows its beauty.
For a week the bundle dries
Until its smoke can cleanse my room
And drive away the demons there
That stir me from my midnight peace.
And with a prayer and gentle plea
That only a god would hear
I implore the Universe to help me
The smudge stick wafts its own
Sweet voice to sing its silent song.
Facebook August 3, 2021
Sunstack/Ring June 29, 2023
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Sagebrush
Slashed to clear a garden space
Remnants of a giant sage piled
On the dining room table.
I had plans. These branches
Could make a lot of smudge sticks.
With other chores, other projects
The sage sat for days until
I gather it up to toss it out.
Probably the wrong time of year.
I really don't know the ritual here.
There must be a particular method.
I'm casting about in the dark
For balance and shift.
Sometimes my culture tends
To drift through fashion trends
Replacing lost anthems
With someone else's songs.
I see in my mind a family
Grandmother and her children
Gathered around a table
Stripping bark from willow stems
Splitting reeds to thin strands
Cuttings of sage wound with string
Baskets and cradleboards
Made with care and stories
Following faith and tradition
Thousands of years old.
These are not mine to hold
To copy and claim along
With everything else stolen.
I lay the sage in the trash
Close the lid and leave
To find my own way
To spend a meaningful day.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Note: sage smoke has antiseptic properties that can be used to cleanse the air in a room where someone has been ill.