The Ages Have Been At Work

I will speak for those silent sentinels who have no voice–
grass and butte, stream and rock.
those chambers of the global heart
that have been worked by the ages,
sitting in place, growing in might
on the prairies of our soul.
I will lie down on the hard bedrock of Earth,
waiting for a revelation of meadowlark,
bison, cougar, and coyote.
Trickster, what is it you know?
What ripples across your mind,
like the waves of the deep lake
of being?
Can you tell me the secrets
of those dear matters of blood,
too deep for words?
As I scrape the edges of the canyon walls,
of mica, granite, and sandstone, I hear
the crumbling of my own desires.
I climb the buttes and bluffs to look outward
and to see inward, staring into the
blackness of my own heart,
like the night sky on fire.
What passions live in the prairie?
Is it the flame of the wind?
The small breaking of dirt as the grass
climbs higher to view the vistas of
longing, to look out like a sailor
peering through his sextant?
What heights of hope does the
prairie let us measure as the thunderheads
billow like a shook blanket against the wind?
I lower my hat, wipe the sweat from my
dirt-stained brow, and open my eyes
to the wonders of delight.