Nor did they tell me of Spirits other home;
a mansion of hills and deep valleys,
sheltered by giants that sway in the breeze,
sweeping the sky with brushstrokes of love.
I didn’t know Spirit has another voice;
booming as the surf crashes to shore,
heard in the flow of the winding brook
and in the mighty song of the Wren.
Never was I taught of Spirits true face;
found in the countenance of animals and beasts,
peering from dark places with ancient eyes,
through which I see another way.
There was no lesson that the hand of Spirit;
is as close as the one reaching out,
seeking compassion, finding mercy
in the tender grasp that does not let go.
I learned these things from bowing
to the Elders and the Earth,
wise to the ways of Spirit,
and the yearnings of the young.
I learned that Spirit loves to dance,
to screech and pound the drum.
So now I do, my body submitting
to the wild places within.
I listen now to the call of Spirit
in the sounds of the feral and untamed,
in cries for compassion from the lips of the living,
and on the whispering breath of the dead.
I move across the landscape of Spirit
with ecstasy in my soul,
my heart the drum, my breath the song,
my sweat the elixir of passion.