... in the hands of the maker

These feet trodden , benumbed ,
enslaved by the weight of the load
loamy earth no longer soft , supple ,
forgiving of cold tender feet

the pang of crystalline frost heaves
beneath winter moss
ache as if walking barefoot
on frigid rocky ground

each step taken in effort to draw nearer ,
apportion the distance between a place once so closely embraced,
                      and yet ,
                      now the distance appears so wide

the gravity of the metaphysical makes

me weak in the knees
                     I drop down and kiss the wintry ground
                     knowing all my cares 

                                   lie frozen far below ...

the scent of burning sage
                      and
                    sweetgrass permeates the chill ,
                    smoke rising like mist 

                    into the mystic

a healing smudge carefully brushed with reverence ,
an abounding LOVE cleansing in this earth ,
                  the atmosphere stirs ,

                  I feel the muted words'                           silence emanating in the air

... knowing I’m not a stranger

    in the hands of the maker

© Harlon Rivers ...December 9th, 2013