There Are Spirits Here

 

The portal of the night illuminated by moon

and silvery-etched clouds promises cosmic mysteries

to the dreamer who navigates by the stars.

The faint inky outline of the mountains,

huddled along the shore like sleeping giants,

casts a shadow across the land

where once the Old Ones walked.

There are spirits abroad in the land

this night.

I can feel them close, but just beyond

my sight.

Grandfather Cedar towers,

black against the starlit sky.

On the fencepost,

an owl's yellow eyes

are fixed on my passing

like a messenger

from the other world,

oracle,

harbinger,

soothsayer,

feathered prophet.

What are you
trying to tell me?

I ask.

What is it that I

need to know?

"You already know,"
she says.
"The time for listening
is over.
Now it is time
to act."

Looking up,

all is beauty,

all is peaceful,

all is silence,

all is promise.

Yet I feel
our Mother's pain.

I feel the spirits, near,

the eyes of the ancient ones

looking at me with unspoken request.

I see the world as it was in the Old Ways,

shift my vision to what we have become,

weep for the displaced,

the dispossessed,

fur beings and humans alike,

who wander this disintegrating planet

in an endless quest

for sustenance and peace.

Nearby and all across this island

are razed, desecrated slopes

where the Standing People

once stood green and thick and proud.

My thoughts turn to

the creatures that fly and slither,

that swim in the oceans

and lakes and rivers,

waters that now are ailing;

and to the polluted air,
birds falling from the sky,

the melting icecaps,

the damaged ozone.

My heart sends an apology

to the air and mountains,

earth and sky,

that we Two-Leggeds have

so afflicted.

Mea culpa,
to all the hungry bears and wolves.
Mea culpa,
to all the clearcut slopes.
Mea culpa,
to all the creatures
who have silently disappeared
under our watch.
Mea culpa,
that we never even noticed.

Owl tells me:

Place your hands upon

the trunk of Grandfather Cedar.

Sink your roots deep into the earth.

Sing your song of love

beneath Grandmother Moon,

and send it on the midnight wind

to the ancient ones,

who will carry it

to their sweat lodges

in prayerful ceremony.

Yes, there are spirits here,

inviting us to broaden our vision

from the seen

to the unseen,

to clasp hands with the ancestors

who have come to help us heal

Mother Earth's

deep wounds.

Sigh. For Brendan's challenge at earthweal: All Souls