by Michael Plante

I asked the Creator for a strand of his hair
I asked the crow for a feather
I asked the tree of life for a branch
I asked the ground for her gems.
Songs of peace that I learned so long ago
pressed my lips at dusk’s request.
My decrepit fingers are as old as my heart
still work in the eyes of the Creator.

Twisting the stem of the branch
I bring it full circle then bind the ends together;
it’s flexible, yet strong
it is the circle of life.
The strand of hair that fell from above
pure as snow and just as white
is my binding agent to the Creator.
It is called faith.
Wrapped around the circle of life, the strand re-enforces the branch
interlaced from side to side a web is created.
My decrepit old fingers ache with the work
yet the Creator keeps his best work for last
so I too shall follow his path
keeping in heart the peace I long for.

Red and blue gems received from the ground
have been cleaned and polished, ready to mount.
The best things come from the soil
and should be respected; and represented in the circle of life.
Strands of the web secure them completely
light absorbed shall never fade
just as a spirit shall never surrender.

Dusk’s request falls hard on my mind
light is quickly fading
my song is nearing its end
wisdom foretells my conclusion.
I bare no harm or ill-will,
the wake I leave behind is subtlety absorbed
by kind hearts seeking their songs.

The spirit of the crow lands upon my shoulder
plucks a feather from its wing
lets it fall onto my palm
then takes to the realm that awaits my arrival.
My fingers work the gift of the spirit world
it hangs outside the circle of life
protecting all within
from the spirits that enter our rest.
This final gift I leave in the window
as dusk’s request calls out for my dreams.

The light now faded; my song has ended.
I rest in peace while the dreamcatcher waits.

All compositions that appear on The Poet’s House are composed by Michael Plante and are subject to copyright.

Thank you for visiting Plante101.com