The slow night air
Eases across my body
Laying so simple upon the lonesome praire
Under the western stars-
It brings the smell
And feel
Of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of years;
The ancient dirt, made
Of long gone Bison manure,
The dryness of wind blown dust, made
Sacred by the bones of long forgotten Native Americans-
The depth of the dark
Can only be measured here
By the dim light of those
Distant fire balls, and by
The just out of reach Lightning Bugs
(like a spirit in the sky both are untouchable) .
I lay prone, and very still
Barely breathing
Not a sound dare I make,
For truly I tell you:
This is indeed
Sacred Ground.
Blessed from
Eternity to Eternity.
I agree with Eric Cockrell! ! It is indeed worthy of being called sacred! Very, very fine poem, Smoky. Constance
very much so... would that we could see all ground as sacred ground...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Sounds like a wonderful place to be Smoky. Great work.