Inner Seasons
Follow the Crow and find the trail
of breadcrumbs, feathers, leaves and stones
to lead you from the summer lands
into the autumn and unknown,
yes go. Go now, as day ripens,
your fears writ large upon the sky,
the wind whispers: don’t be afraid,
the trees tremble as you pass by
and Crow cries out, compelling you
through haunted hills that rise and fall
and breathe and sigh beneath your step,
and Crow is gone. . .and you, you’re small
and all alone, and frightened now,
the wind grows cold, the autumn trees
stand naked as the seasons turn,
the sun sinks down, you’re on your knees
upon the grass, upon the ground
among toadstools spotted and red,
as red as blood, as black as crows,
you rise and run, the sun has bled
its dying light onto the land,
follow the flame, follow the flow,
follow the one who takes your hand,
follow the sun, the moon, yes go,
go quickly now, and join the dance
where child, girl, woman, and crone
all waltz within your heart, your skin,
your inner seasons, flesh and bone
formed out of water, root, and stone,
and blood and flame and leaf and star,
then sleep, and dream of days to come,
and all you’ll be, and all you are,
yes, sleep. You dream of crows, and clouds,
of feathers, flight, and fields of snow,
and of the day you tell your own daughter:
follow the Crow.
Terri Windling