Moon & Rattlesnake 🌙

✨A Creek poetic legend of grief, betrayal, and the songs of serpents✨

They say she used to walk among us.

The Moon.

Not just a light in the sky,

but a woman with silver skin

and a voice like river lullabies—

low and lonesome,

full of secrets.

She moved like dusk—

soft and sure,

carrying the scent of magnolia

and mourning.

And lawd, she loved that man.

A warrior carved from cedar and fire,

with a jaw that could slice lies in two

and eyes that saw too much.

She gave him her light.

Wrapped it ‘round his shoulders

like a shawl stitched from starlight and bone.

Sang to his scars,

bathed his rage in quiet.

She believed him

even when his truth came with splinters.

But one summer night,

when the cypress were heavy with ghosts

and the frogs held their breath,

he laid his promises at another woman’s feet.

He kissed her beneath the same moon

that had once watched him swear forever.

And the Moon—

she broke.

Not with thunder.

Not with fire.

But with silence.

She turned her face away from the earth,

packed her sorrow into shadow,

and rose.

High.

Higher.

Until she became untouchable.

Cold,

yes.

But only because warmth cost too much.

And the Rattlesnake,

her old protector—

the one who once slept at her feet

curled like a question—

he watched her go.

He slithered through the cane brake,

traced her light on still water,

and wept the only way he knew how:

with song.

That’s why he rattles.

Not to scare you.

But to remember her.

Every shake of his tail is a hymn.

Every coil a memory.

And when he rises to strike,

it’s not rage—

it’s grief.

Because the Moon was his kin,

his keeper,

his queen.

And she’s never coming back down.

So if you see him on the trail—

don’t run.

Don’t scream.

Just bow your head

and whisper:

“I, too, have loved someone who forgot my light.”

Selu 🌽

✨ Inspired by the Creek story of Selu—the first woman who gave corn to the people✨

She came with soft hands

and a basket full of gold—

not the kind men kill for,

but the kind that feeds the soul.

They say she was not born

but woven—

from river reeds,

sun-warmed earth,

and the breath of the Great Mother

just after rain.

Her name was never whispered lightly.

She was Selu—

Corn Woman.

The one who could make the fields rise

with a hum and a handful of prayer.

But the boys grew.

And with their growing came doubt.

They did not trust what they could not tame.

They peeked behind the veil of her ritual—

watched her magic,

called it strange,

called it wrong.

So she knelt,

placed the corn in their hands,

and said: 

“This is my body, and it will grow again.

But not from my touch- from yours.

With blood, with sweat, with respect.”

Then she laid herself down

on the dirt that had always loved her,

and from her body

sprouted the first stalk.

We ate her memory for generations.

We plant her name in rows each spring.

We remember her

in every kernel,

every mother’s lullaby,

every woman who gives too much

and asks for nothing but reverence.

Corn is not just a crop.

It is her body—

still feeding the ones

who forgot how to say thank you.

The Wind 🌬️

✨a Creek tale✨

Long ago,

when thunder still walked barefoot

and the trees could speak your true name,

there came a flood

that swallowed the world’s breath.

Waters climbed the knees of the hills,

then the shoulders,

then the sky.

And our people,

the ones born of wind and bone,

had nowhere left to run.

But the birds—

oh, the birds—

they remembered.

They remembered the songs we sang to them,

the offerings left in winter,

the way our children watched them fly

and learned what freedom meant.

So the heron lifted our babies

on backs made for gliding.

The hawk circled overhead,

cutting paths through clouds.

The wren tucked seeds in her feathers,

carrying the promise of food

into a world reborn.

The Wind Clan was scattered

on the wings of mercy—

but not broken.

We listened to the breeze

and followed its hush

like a mother calling her child home.

We still do.

Even now,

when the wind changes

and the leaves dance without touching,

I press my ear to the air

and ask my ancestors:

Where do I go next?

And the birds answer,

not with words,

but with flight.