Debra Coppinger Hill

Echoes Of The Canyon

Poem by Debra Coppinger Hill

They say that she is crazy
talking to the canyon;
Listening to the voices
that echo from the rocks.
She knows that they are out there,
the spirits of the Ancients,
And the moon, it makes her restless
as it lights the path she walks.

The Storykeeper told her
the water there flows crimson;
That the grass for the ponies,
is lush and green and tall.
Among the stalks of sky-blue corn,
medicine drums are calling;
The Old Ones shadow-dancing
as the twilight starts to fall.

So she burns a little sage
on a fire made of cedar;
Sending prayers out to them
in a shower of sparks and smoke.
The flames bid her welcome
into the Sacred Circle;
Her flute repeating softly,
the promises that he spoke.

For her sacrifice and faith
the Old Ones send a message;
A hawk dips down and beckons
to follow ever high.
The path is steep and rocky,
but she just keeps on climbing;
Waiting for the moment
when she’ll be allowed to fly.

One day, she simply disappeared.
I like to think she found it;
That emerald endless valley
where the Spirit Dancers dwell.
The only question left...
do we deserve to go there?
I guess that’s just a story
that only time can tell.

So, will they think I’m crazy
talking to the canyon?
Listening for her voice
to echo from the stones...
Their thoughts do not concern me
in my quest for the Great Forever;
Wandering the Crimson Canyon trails,
searching for my home.

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Read poems about / on: crazy, faith, moon, green, water, fire, home, sky, dance

Poem Submitted: Sunday, March 27, 2005

Poem Edited: Saturday, May 1, 2010