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?