I wish

...somedays, that I were a member of an ancient tribe.

Ones who worshipped the solstice sun on a serpent mound,

with a chip of pipestone rock in my pocket.

That I sang a dipping song to the dipping moon,

shaking my rattle drum with the night cicadas.

(Though I doubt women wore things with pockets).

(And, perhaps, actually the women were not part of the worshipping).

(And, even then in my imagination, I would be a reluctant rattle shaker).

Okay, let me start over. Somedays, I wish I were

a member of a tribe. Any tribe of gathered souls.

Ones that recognizes the lacy overlay of tree shadow on green.

Ones who are willing to rise to high heights to see beautiful things.

Ones who might stand on the tip of the serpent mound

and pray to the four directions, beckoning in

the dormant strength of the cold North,

the glinting hope in the spring East,

the lazy assurance of long-sunned summer South,

the ripening and release of the ending West.

Okay, now I am just sounding pretty.

(Or at least trying to). I wish, I really wish,

that someone else had been with me

on the day this picture was taken.

And that, instead of a shadow upon the path,

there had been a wide toothed goofball girlfriend

waving up at me. And that she and stood

on the tip of the tail and prayed together,

giving thanks for the four directions

that surrounded and bound the love between us.

And that, after the walk around this historic place,

we got into the car, and she put her hand

on the back of my head,

placing the memory within me:

that sacred sliver between two people

who have shared a sacred place.