In the tongue of the Dakotah
it is the country of the grass.
The grass that’s greasy in the wind
For the way it slips and swirls
whispers in the breeze
catches light like waves
in a sea of opalescent green
It isn’t just the wind
there’s a feeling too that’s there
of a majesty beneath the sound
that slips within my soul.
I ask myself sometimes
is it an echo
of when the world came first to be?
A kind of grace note maybe?
On an instrument played by God
when he holds his finger on the key
plays a note so low it almost isn’t there.
I wonder too if others hear it
or is it only me?
I wish that I
could climb inside that note somehow
feel the world from there.
It is the elemental essence that I feel
that spirit never sleeps
In the country of the grass
that’s greasy in the wind