I step out the door
and gaze east at the
dream-heavy clouds.

At my back,
without looking,
I feel the Thunderers
will pay a visit tonight;
mountain gods incarnate as sound.

Their offering: Purification.

My feet-on-earth
feel the quickening Spring pulse;
green spirits returning
in meadow
on branch
at shoreline
along flowered lane and budding path

bending light
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:
remain silent
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

sound: Robert Rich / "Profligate Earth" / What We Left Behind