Sacred Ground Poem by Linda Marie Van Tassell

The air is bathed by western wind
on the head of a silver cloud
whose raining hair is scented fresh
as spring in a burgeoning shroud;
and feathers flank the gnarled old tree
whose branches waved their last farewell
when lightning struck and burst in flame
as though a timber straight from hell.

The sky swirls into skirts of storm
that unravel in shades of gray.
One seed that wafted into nest
has now blossomed into display.
It sings among the tangled vines,
the notes written on sheets of air,
and breaks the silence of the morn
with its ever hopeful prayer.

Yesterday – the birth of hindsight.
Today – the wings of what’s to come.
Tomorrow – a chance for freedom
with the dawning millennium.
We’re born to die in retrospect,
chasing the wind into the wave
on echoes of eternity
that lead us blindly to the grave.

There is wisdom in the journey
that is retained when we return.
When a woman swallows the moon,
the heart of darkness starts to burn;
and each man shall rise in glory
from sacred ground that gives him birth
spreading wings like God’s Great Spirit
over emerald peaks of earth.