Gathering Place
Resting on coarse edges of the mountain,
sunken clouds ripe with tears
Heavy and fatigued,
Satiated from answering the calls for help
What should’ve been a fevered morning,
now jaded with grief
The gentle fog tumbles through thick emerald forest
A benign spirit drifting endlessly,
watching, aching to be seen
Orchestras of ancestral wisdom
whisper among the trees
Creeping through thicket,
like a timid child trying not to disturb an overworked mother
They feel the guardian
Overburdened and seeping with torment
They hear the call
Through barrels of harsh winters
and relentless piercing sleet
Strangers attempt to conquer the mountain
With a stubborn refusal to assimilate,
an arrogant attempt for domination
The mother’s sinister laughter sends hurdles
echoing through the canyon
and striking down unwanted visitors
The old ones know to listen
Flowing with her
Not to seize control
but instead to add to the eternal symphony of song
On a quest between realms,
they are welcomed into a holy gateway
Never faltering in faith
Trusting the elders to catch them
Medicine Mountain, the wise ones call it
An apt name for the healing place
Offerings sprinkle the edge of ancient stone spikes
Cedar wafts and dances with sage bundles
A ceremony of reverent remembrance
Prayers sent to the ancestors
What was once given is now returned
Welcome dear brothers,
Hold me gentle sisters
Sacred and ethereal,
We at last gather as one
Medicine Wheel, Medicine Mountain
Bighorn National Forest
