The Medicine Bag

The Medicine Bag March the centuries on, the talisman wraps and clings to the collar bone. The medicine bag cups holy bones that speak of the future, flint and stone to make magic fire strong medicine in the feather of the eagle a tooth of the wolf when the spirit guide is he, Should the moon's cycle be the guide. an agate stone. Antler bone, its spirit sacrificed, meat and juices hiss into the fire on a wintry night. Amulets forever worn „round the neck touched by hands to reassure. Fear, pain and loss subside. Joy celebrated stroked in thanksgiving, always there, a comfort. To lose it was to lose one.s self. The medicine bag still adorns the educated, the modern, the agnostic. Turquoise of a native people rosary beads for a strict and vengeful God a locket filled with a beloved.s hair hippy beads from the time of peace signs and Haight-Ashbury a gold chain dangling stones ripped from the earth David.s star shining over centuries of darkness. The shark.s tooth from the icy, indifferent depths silver charms jingle and talk of life.s landmarks the gold cross celebrating a vicious torture worry beads from a mysterious and dark cult a modest grain of sand coated with oyster spit the ashes of one that ca'.t be let go, lest it diminish the life that remains. Medicine bags…all. Trisha Sugarek from Butterflies and Bullets