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| Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. |
This place that we call home
For a people who have lived here a thousand years and more
The mountains hold the eternity of ancestral memory
I, two thousand miles and more from my own home,
A home unrecognizeable to me now, one my grandfather would not know
Yet feel the pull of the spirits who live in this place
The peaks are old beyond time
The Old Man, stony gaze ajut from the eastern face
Keeps his silent watch above the treeline,
Sun and moon and stars all that ascend above his brow
And still I hear his voice
Like the peak he faces, wrapped in the folds of a forest blanket
He makes his wishes known upon the wind
To the north, the female peaks sit silently
Their bodies deliver their message — words unneeded
And apparently unwanted
Before they are lost to sight beneath night's dark blanket
The sun touches them one last time
Its light slanting through the chamisa, carrying the words yet whispered on the winds that circle the ruin
Turning the old ones' voices into shadows, long and tall and strong
That speak of sacred trusts.
Listen.
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