CHANT FOR THE MOON-OF-FLOWERS
63
In the Moon-of-Blueberries ask our mother earth
To let the sap go up her stalks of corn
In sparkling currents; make the huckleberries
So plentiful that when we shake the twigs
Above the mó-kuk, the sagging fruit will patter
Down on the birchbark bucket-round blue rain;
Make the wild hay deep among the meadows,
More soft and deep than winter-fur of beaver,
So thick the northwind cannot part the grasses.
Not for myself I ask these presents,
But for my daughter, Little-Bee,
For she is good.
To let the sap go up her stalks of corn
In sparkling currents; make the huckleberries
So plentiful that when we shake the twigs
Above the mó-kuk, the sagging fruit will patter
Down on the birchbark bucket-round blue rain;
Make the wild hay deep among the meadows,
More soft and deep than winter-fur of beaver,
So thick the northwind cannot part the grasses.
Not for myself I ask these presents,
But for my daughter, Little-Bee,
For she is good.
In the Moon-of-Changing-Color-of-the-Leaves
Ripen the wild-rice growing in the marshes,
Until the yellow grains are full of milk,
Ripe for the world, like heavy-breasted women;
In the wet mush-kéegs, make cranberries plentiful,
Thick as the dots that mark the spotted trout;
And may the goose-plums on the tree be many,
So full of clear red honey that they burst
Their skins and spatter sweet upon the earth.
Not for myself I ask these gifts,
Ripen the wild-rice growing in the marshes,
Until the yellow grains are full of milk,
Ripe for the world, like heavy-breasted women;
In the wet mush-kéegs, make cranberries plentiful,
Thick as the dots that mark the spotted trout;
And may the goose-plums on the tree be many,
So full of clear red honey that they burst
Their skins and spatter sweet upon the earth.
Not for myself I ask these gifts,
