poke

a place for healing hands to dig
the dirt of the human soul,
to find what grows of darkness;
carving recesses for fragile roots
with hands made strong by tradition
and hope

she wields nothing but a chonta wand
and a calm, unbreaking spirit,
but draws from all the things
that come of believing
in something more than a simple reality,
divesting power from spirits
who seek to plague the weakness of men.


time-honored fingers to silence fluttering lids
and bring peace to that which can only be cured
by faith; gaudy flash
of feathers, as healer comes
like hummingbird to fragrant flowers.
prodding the seed of sickness
and drawing it out as sacred duty,
sweet on the tongue.


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Title is somewhat prompt; mostly prompted by this wiki page.