The Whispers of Kokopelli

In the distance a panorama of mystic buttes
standing vigilant like watchtowers over the mesa-
monuments to Mother Earth's sacred birth.
It is a place of harmony and peace,
its earthen tones of sepia and rust,
as with a painter's brush, mingles
with the golden hues of sun,
to blaze the tablelands with scarlet skies.


( The magic lands of the Anasazi. )
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


The sun shines more with each passing day.
Sheets of ice blanketing the earth have melted away.
The reckless winds having raged
with wild abandon seem contented now
to whisper through the lands.

With hands still haunting of winter chill,
cheeks raw and numb,
(though shelters in the ground
a bit warmer now)
and baskets dwindling fast
to last of winter stores,
I've come to know the meaning of joy.

The whispering winds grow louder
with inextricable tone,
different than winter's sharp cries of despair,
there's a resonance that touches the heart,
quickens the spirit to lift it up
where it belongs.

Might it be the Great Spirit Creator-
the hope that wrest from winter frost
the makings of youthful Spring?

Or, a spirit ancestor
pledged by his code to share
his infinite benevolence.

But, oh!
It's Kokopelli with his flute!
Dancing to the magic notes he plays
while upon his hunched back brings
the seeds of Life,
the songs of Spring,
and despite his heavy burden makes
a lasting plenitude.

His music and merriment
a testament to our aegis,
infusing whatever hardship be borne,
is, a mere pittance to pay
for the joy to create.

And I gathered up my cedar flute,
lips and fingers numb,
and to the whispers of Kokopelli,
I played.

Copywright 2009 Francis Don Daniels