Ann Arbor Review
INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Michael D. Long
Mary E. Finlan
KOKOPELLI IN WAHWEEP
There he stands on the cliff
As rainbow bursting colors
Scan the eastern sky.
The sun descends with
Greater glory in the west
Blazing fire into the air and clouds,
Grays and crimson, ignited by this
Sinking star that heated the earth all day.
The canyon light changes so fast
One's eyes can not adjust.
His music sings through the stillness
Of air lacking heavy moisture drops
Allowing notes to float
Gently upon the earth,
Touching souls of those mingling
With parched mouths agape
Spellbound by the melodic sound
Drifting off into all crevasses
Of human and rock forms alike.
A young Hopi Indian man
With a long black tail and gentle features
Moves with his enchanting flute.
Young children are captured by him first
As they follow him about.
Ladies eyes keep returning to his form
There out on the grassy cliff
As their chattering persists.
The men avoid his gentle tones ignoring the
Subtle softening of their being.
His songs play gentle havoc with all that can hear.
Something magical is occurring;
From the past a link to people and time
To a culture so foreign from those about.
Is it Kokopelli? Is it?
The excitement builds in the gathering crowd.
The energy changes and swirls about,
Yet his tune stays smooth and airy
Riding the light night air
Holding all those souls in his song
Capturing them unaware.
Joanie Freeman, Virginia
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