Go lie down in a field
where snow will fall,
curled among the grasses.
Bones gather around you,
bison teeth, crow feather,
now sunk into the soil.
The grasses, dressed in gray,
are silent around your little plot.
Great rivers stir in their sleep
deep beneath, filtered down
after falling for ages, rinsing
sky into the ground.
Earth holds you in her slow, steady spin.
The eternal and mere soil
pass into each other.
Eons pass. Everything that is alive
will pass, gathered here in this field.
Be here a while.
This is the empty manger.
__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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