Returning to Sacred Land
All the snow has finished falling
but the sky is still the color
of dense swirling smoke
gray.
The snow came in flurries
dusting the trees with powdered sugar
greeting the ground with a warm smile,
dazzlingly white.
But the brush still stands,
painting the meadows a sweet golden honey
in winter and spring and summer and fall,
standing tall.
The boughs creak
and shake off the alabaster flakes
which do an elaborate dance,
a ritual.
The silent oaks and the gusts of snow and the dried up brush all stand
on sacred ground
and the wind whistles through the swaying branches,
especially loud today.
Today, the meadow once again welcomes visitors,
people returning to the land where their ancestors walked,
so many years ago.
They come from where the lakes have never seen ice
where one never worries about snow.
But now they are back to their sacred place,
fighting off the sharp zephyrs bravely
as they pay debts of respect that are long overdue.
There are men and women bundled up in coats and jackets
And one with a feathered headdress.
Soundlessly gathered.
Once again, the snow starts falling.
My Podcast
by Emre
