Poultice: A Meditation Poem for Healing

 

Poultice

In the times before these times,

when the old ones who still remembered 

saw the signs

that the sickness had turned inwards,

towards the blood, towards the bone,

when they saw the rising heat, the grey pallor, 

the yellowing eye, the listless limb,

they would go to the forest with faith,

and prayerfully pick the cool moss,

the healing herb, collect the soft river earth.

Then, these clever cunning men, 

these wise sharp women, 

would mix the poultice paste

by moon’s silvering, 

by dawn’s turning,

by saint’s praying,

and finding the point of pain

they would anoint the body 

and bandage tight with blessing,

igniting with intention

the banked medicinal fire,

it’s noble warmth now

leaching out the ague

bringing, at last, the wounded one 

to the healing crisis that, 

perhaps at first, looks like 

death’s drawing near,

before the sacred singing moment

where fever breaks and skin erupts 

and pus and poison flow, and drain, 

and light returns to eyes at last

as breath stills, calms, deepens 

and balance comes again,

as first dawn light touches the

roots of the trees 

and brings the golden edge

of Love’s arising

to new life.

Now, 

In this time of times

perhaps we have such need again, 

for a poultice placed 

gently and with kindness upon 

the rounded body of the earth

where too long our self-sickness has

burrowed deep within and brought 

the breaking and the burning

of fever dream, of pain and sorrow

become now a crown of pain,

a pulsing pandemic bound tight 

about our wounded world 

filled with the, 

the pus and poison that would

set our soul cells against each other 

tearing the woven thread of being apart.

So then, hear the ancient remedy, 

ever old and ever new,

and with faith go out to gather the gifts 

of kindness, gentleness, peace 

then bind them 

with the binding cloth of love 

and anoint the broken body 

of the world with blessing 

that after crisis cools this earth, 

the hearts, the souls of all that live

may wake from this fever dream

and see, as only those who

touch death see,

the grace of dawn

the gift of life

the oneness of 

our being.