Slow Smoke/Chant for the Moon-of-Flowers

by Lew Sarett

CHANT FOR THE MOON-OF-FLOWERS

On the sacred flame, O Mighty Mystery,
I fling my handful of good red-willow bark;
Like willow smoke that floats upon the dusk,
My prayer goes winding up the sky to you:

In the Moon-of-Strawberries-and-Raspberries
Stain the green world, O Maker-of-all-good-things,
With a bursting yield of berries; let them hang
Plenty upon the bush, and heavy with blood.
Let the trout and whitefish walk into my nets
Thick as the stars that swim across the sky;
And may the big-knives offer plenty silver
For every catch of fish; ho! let the price
Of fat young pike and trout be seven coppers
No longer—eight is good, and nine is better.
  Not for myself I ask all this,
  But for my little boy, Red-Owl,
     For he is good.

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.

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,
  But for my woman, Yellow-Wing,
     For she is good.

Ho! Mystery, I fling upon the fire
My handful of willow bark to make you glad;
Open your hands and toss me many presents
Showering on the earth like falling leaves.