|
|
|
Myths say that if one sings soulfully and with fervor over the bones of a wolf, she will rise from her bones and walk away full-bodied. Like a modern Indian chanting over buffalo bones, to revive his sacred food, I sing psalms of praise and forgiveness to the wolf; from hot, humid arroyos of Oklahoma where I ran free and above the steep asphalt canyons of L.A. where I am bound by voluntary servitude in glass and steel mountains. The horned owl, the cougar, deer, elk, air and water all need the wolf to make their land wild again. What do I need? I know about raw power creating the mountains, know about water sculpting ridges and gouging out deep canyons. Now I walk over moss-padded boulders, under beards of lichen hanging from ancient trees; lie on river banks watching the future-- primordial water raging toward me, by me, into the past. I need the wolf to rip away layers of asphalt, scratch in my red dirt and howl over my bones to resurrect my natural man. (To copy or translate this poem, please contact JIM MANNING) TRANSLATOR and ILLUSTRATOR WANTED FOR THIS PAGE
|
| THANK YOU FOR READING |
 |
SubscribeUnsubscribe |
