I step out the door
and gaze east at the
At my back,
I feel the Thunderers
will pay a visit tonight;
mountain gods incarnate as sound.
Their offering: Purification.
feel the quickening Spring pulse;
green spirits returning
along flowered lane and budding path
leaning toward the Sun
and human shoulders passing by.
These unseen tributaries of renewal
are known differently for their gifts.
If I were Iroquois: orenda would flow from my lips.
If I were Algonquian: manitou.
If I were Yoruban, I would say 'an orisha of nature had spoken to me.'
As spiritual orphan,
exiled from those from whom I hail,
I can only reach deep
into languages I don't speak;
to even older spiritual ancestors
who wash their hands
clap three times
and pay homage to the realm of kami.
The only replacement it would seem:
ponder the earth's flowing numen
and realize the dialogue
is with an enlivening force
that precedes all words and names.
May The Force Be With You.
(c) 2018 / Frank LaRue Owen (Wandering Stone Lantern) / purelandpoetry.com