THE SINGING STONES
In empty places without the mercy of water.
In long forgotten canyons and along dry mesa tops.
I have sought my soul among the lost and the dead,
who do not rest.
The wind carries a song that calls me back to
firelight, smoke and memories.
Flesh that feels the approach of winter and
a heart that leaps with the joy of spring.
Voices raised in soft words, babble like water after rains.
Sweet sage & pine & scrubs scent the air.
To where do I wander? Can I find that moment, that day?
Come Great Spirit, lead me forward to that place to which you
have drawn me. To rocks that sing my name. I have
heard them in dreams.
Across the great desert and through the dwellings of another people
Into the rock womb where I was formed, into the beginning
place I go, to find my place among the living or perhaps my rest
among these dead. For seasons pass. Wind, snow and then
wailing winds in the canyons. Golden leaves, rabbit prints,
warmth of day, cold nights.
Sounds carry so far, chirping, night stars and moonlight
full of curious shadows, scents on the breeze,
bright sunsets and dawn light splitting the earth dark from light.
The rocks sing my name in this place.
My soul forever thirsts
for this beauty and weeps within me, like the
sounds of the flute echoing through the canyons.
Leading me to a cold kiva by a spruce tree, to rocks
there. These rocks shaped my body then and sing
my name now.
