There is such thing as a healing round. I won’t explain in detail as A person does not speak of Sacred things, As if to assign form to what is Better left Shifting through the wind Like the breath of God.
Better left to those whose Ancestors passed down the songs That shall not be sung in winter.
But I will speak of the Splitting of my skin At a feather’s edge Bone whistle call, Walls dissolved And all the grief came pouring out.
Bent over, arms clutched across my Chest, sobbing now, Tears wet the earth.
I finally allow in The presence of my mother’s death
And a broader mourning That I cannot define.
There is such thing as a healing round.
I am walking now Footsteps quiet on the cathedral floor, Faces in stained glass Watching from lofty spires of marble and slick, gray stone. Do their eyes follow my small, hesistant form?
I do not frequent churches and prefer to come alone
To enter a silence In which all of the suffering That this world Has ever borne Hangs heavy Suspended in the resonance of Great, imposing halls, Vast oceans of sorrow, and here too, Something that carries and lifts;
Perhaps, the love of God.
Heal us and forgive us In our blindness Take my hand and show me, Again, the sunlit road Where we can be found.
There is such thing as holy ground.
The water knows Rushing between the rocks, Between the wild, greening cliffs Where gently a little Robin flits And perches on the tangled brush Beside the shore.
You belong here, she sings, You belong You belong
And there is such thing as holy ground
Always within it beauty And a great sadness looming
And how is it that so few can trace the outlines of its form Beneath the skin, But you can You can You can?