HomePublicationsThe Tracker MagazineVol 4, No. 1, 1985

The Tracker Magazine - Vol 4 No. 1, 1985

For You

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by J. A. Spina

I have awakened, cold and shivering, on a bright Spring morning,
   and lain, enraptured by the golden hues of sunrise,
Warming the haloed fir tops on the distant mountains.
I've run swiftly, and hard, youthfully barefooted,
   Over warm green carpets of clover and meadowgrass,
To stumble and roll, crying, laughing onto the loving lap of my Mother.
There to be rekindled, raised and resurrected - to run again...
   With the Wind's magic against my face, her song across my ears.
Through the soft veil of blue sky and sunlight,
   Arriving, panting, sweating, the miles behind me, ahead - Eternity.
Falling face down and exhausted upon the forgiving Earth.
   Wondering at the lonesome trek of the infant inchworm, crawling,
Unswerving, steadfastly, Southeast, across the shoulder,
   Of a bare sunburnt boulder. Towards the sun?
Where is his cradle this night? ... Who will provide his blanket?
   Why ... ?
I have tasted the kiss of the clear mountain spring,
   Her cool wetness in Summer, refreshing and sweet against my lips,
Like mother's milk to a newborn child.
I have flown among the Hawks, gliding and soaring,
   Over sky paths, invisible, always seeing, ever knowing...
I have run with the Deer, leaping wild and loose-limbed, heart pounding,
   Between rocks, over fallen logs, through icy streams. Breathless.
Disappearing, instantly, from sight, and sound, into the early morning mists.
I have held onto the final heartbeats of a Rabbit brother,
   Felled by my hand in ancient ritual, fulfilling the time ordered bond
between predator and prey.
Giving me his spirit, his courage, his speed, the wisdom of his Clan.
   Willingly without anger or malice.
To honor me with the final segment in his life's circle.
I have walked, willingly, within the angry, crashing Ocean surf,
   Tumbled and thrown, beaten, bruised, and blooded, gasping, grasping.
To be forcibly flung upon the wet sands, weary and weeping,
   Almost dead but never more alive. I turn back into the fluid of life.
To the Earth's beginnings, to the awesome power of the Creator.
   Smiling, I rest in His hand.
I have walked, slowly, softly, upon a quiet red beach at sunset,
   Casting long blue shadows across the sands,
Shadows that melt reluctantly, sadly, to disappear into evening's
   blue darkness.
Spirit shadows, silently returning into the Sacred Sands of Mother Earth.
I have worked, played, tried, failed, tried again, won, lost, prayed,
   Talked with children, cried at sadness,
I have fought with foes, laughed with friends, been rich and poor,
   I walk upon the Circle smiling - for I have known the power of giving.
For I have known love.

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The Tracker magazine:   Vol 1 No. 1  •  Vol 1 No. 2  •  Vol 1 No. 3  •  Vol 1 No. 4  •  Vol 2 No. 1
Vol 2 Nos. 2 & 3  •  Vol 3 No. 1  •  Vol 4 No. 1 

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