Medicine Wheel

The Medicine Wheel is becoming.

Dreaming indigenous form

Creative directional aid

Blind inner act of power

Gathering stones in the midday sun

I’m sure I look crazy to some

To the few who even notice

I hear their howls of laughter

I feel the biting cynicism

Perhaps I am crazy

I know I am dizzy

If only from desert heat and dehydration

I break from this circle to replenish

Still it calls me back

Seeking those closest to me

In my own backyard

Standing my ground

Searching for meaning and purpose

Assembling a semblance of truth

Some of the rocks sing to me

“Pick me. Pick me. I want to play.”

Some are too stubborn to move

Others hold their angry heat

And burn the palms of my hands

The circle widens

My own search ripples outward

Gathering from the front yard

And the abandoned lot next door

Leaving no stone unturned

A datura flower wilts in the sun

Trumpeting hallucination of tears

Trailing my own footsteps

Mirroring my altered vision

Buried treasure, an old coin or two

A piece of purpled glass

A bit of bleached bone

They’re buried there.

The Medicine Wheel is becoming

Showing the beauty way

To who knows where

No one sees the inward progress

Searching for a way back

A way out and forward

Returning to Self.

(c) 2012