I thought of many poems last week on the road. Ideas percolated as I drove. Certain names of places sang to me: Tioga Downs. West Almond. Town of Friendship.
On the second morning, my dazzling car was coated with glittering ice crystals as we headed off to Indiana from Seneca Nation in Western New York.
The day after that, upon entering Cherokee Nation, it seemed the Sky God’s paintbrush had streaked feather-clouds across the wide blue dome.
That night, in the “Heartland of America”, I came across an asphalt manufacturing plant guarding ancient buffalo stomping grounds.
Across the road, not far from my hotel, when I walked out on the plains, I was amazed to feel the sonic ripples of stampedes, reverberating underneath my feet.
In our enigmatic universe of infinite space, time is not linear and poetry is everywhere.
May your heart be cradled by Great Mother, and your soul be blessed with love.
🙏🏼✨🦉💜🌵OBC
One Bold Crone 