Poetry for The Fountain of Four Seasons

The Seed: Chant of the Indian Maidens

By Michael Carey

After long suffering,

peace comes,

a kind of quiet

breaks over bent knees

and necks and falls softly

no matter how loud

the turbulence

in the distance.

Once in fertile ground,

the seed grows

come rain or snow,

or the brightest

of sunshine.

In sickness

and in health,

for better

or for worse

it blooms and blossoms.

When God wills,

it comes. Stop,

fellow nomad, and

gratefully gather in

whatever it is,

whatever it has become,

no matter how small or painful

or seemingly insignificant,

the gift, the joy, the life.

Oh hear, all,

north, east, south and west

now and forever,

our prayer sung in silence:

always and everywhere

give thanks, forever bend your

beautiful battle-weary bones

with tending.

Fountain of Four Seasons

By Neal Bowers

No need to throw a coin

because this fountain itself is a wish,

a charm against everything

that can go wrong from seed to harvest,

from hand to soil and back again.

The water climbs, collapses, climbs

and falls upon itself

in that old paradigms of plenty,

while maidens guard the compass points,

invoke the seasons.

Look how they cradle the seeds,

the plant, the full-grown ears,

so mush tender mothering

from corn to small child nursing.

Who could fail with such devotion?

If you walk around their circle

you can see the seasons turn,

feel the weather changing,

know that nothing stays the same,

that this is constancy.