in the shadows
Many times I have seen the morning rise
above the Superstition Mountains in the Spring.
This time as an old man,
sitting on the tortured rocks alone,
again a newborn I asked the Thunder Gods
to share with me what our tomorrows bring.
Always I'm a child there, to Them, a Lilliputian
struggling to find a larger voice
amidst the twisted broken splinters
of the bones that formed the earth,
the folded shattered slabs of pain
jutting from the desert sage and sand.
So, like some medieval penitent,
I took my knife to draw blood from my hand;
patiently the Mountains watched me
dripping on the glowing coals,
quietly the Gods endured my prayers
sent scented and entwined within
a fragile lattice woven
by the sage and incense
smoke of yasmine, amber, sandalwood
Tasting old words, chanting rhyme
in triplicates almost lost to time
slow breathing, air drawn deeply
drawn again and drawn again,
chest heaving in the dry thin air
I felt the earth's own energy
flowing through my heart to fill the world.
I formed the image of your eyes
I met the warmth inside your soul;
from behind, a mother eagle rose in rippling shadows
lifting up to catch the Mountains'
rising breath of life drawn sharply
with the birthing of the day.
She called out hunting, her haunting brazen morning cry,
stark echoes in the canyons in the rocks and in my soul;
flexing talons as she circled, turning gently toward the sun
she caught the smoke above my head,
ribbons of my spirit's burning questions,
drawing them into a sky
still laced with swiftly dimming stars;
she soared eastward into time.
©2003 by icebox