A listening

Eye of the aerial, batting it’s pristine awareness on the silver and red corral that lace her fingers. Her hands holding a spirit as old as the red dirt she missed as a child. Her nerve endings and new beginnings wearing a skin as young as the 28th spring. The bones of Poca hear the drops of verity before the canals of her listening could absorb such light. Light is information. Light is energy. Light is what light isn’t too. Trickling down from the blue ceiling, everything inside her becomes still, as the glass on a frozen lake lay placidly, as if there were no such creation of time nor pace, at least when a message is finding its place in her bones, in her wake. As if her blood halts it’s sacred dance and her breath holds sentient space for the unnerving importance of what her Creator might whisper. Spirit has no planner. Spirit defies logic. Spirit knows better than to cap a housing where a ceiling is impermissible.. For the fire we wake to and the lantern we sleep with are the signs of dawn and dusk for only the earthly plane. “Sanity for the mind” claims she. Poca has always detected the space that exists beyond the parameters of time– behind the bell at lunch and the confines of numbers, behind the alarm of her brother's phone that tells his brain he mustn’t rest another second out of fear for another man gaining what his rest aimed to offer, behind the ticking of a clock and the conditioning of a watch to do and to say, to begin your day’s doings and unbecomings, behind the Sun and it’s respectful descent for the day. Ungoverned by this manmade structure, she waits.

There has been a yearning, for the turning of page, she has lived with from her first days. Years calculate as water gathered, and wrinkles accumulate as poetry. What you long for can only extend your reach if you allow it to. The weep of the canyons hold a thunder untapped– hearing what they don't say, knowing if the stroke of lightning could only ever mystify her wake, maybe then there might be a 3rd coming of time. Sure to shake, Poca repels the grains who have woven their pangs of this generation's complex nature to wax and to wane. Something must be changed…she hears. The far off rolling prairies running thin, sheathing spirit so they mustn't wage war on the untouchable, yet this war is raging on the ancient kin…and the knees of modern men: greedy.

Tethered, or devoted, to the patterns of the DNA she came from. Peace embedded in her, as she was brought forth just to be. Peace coming from grandfather's wounded knee. Walking alone, Poca continues the walk for the ones that came before, as she promised them she would. A constant flux between being seen and being misunderstood. No length in her might, there is only truth. And when she speaks to the places of silence he reaps his ripened holy fruits. He is guided by the heart of his unborn son who holds more than the material taught. There are no feathers to house his walk, no bones to remorse, no water left to tread the emotions of pebbles turned. Trauma chosen before the body of you had come forth. Trauma knowing the parliaments of you before you were given form. Trauma, misinformed.Trauma, alchemized for you to be reborn. Remove, release, relieve the stand-still of the chosen ones, for these are the hands we must look to for reconciliation and lullaby. What might rise might be mighty enough to restore the fall. Leather furls the shoulders of the priest housing breasts for they do not know she is a man standing tall, yet still she feels small. There is certainty that cannot be contained in the power of her step. For what comes next cannot be idle, for what comes next must live in the eye, full. “I hear you beyond your howl. I feel you without hands. And there are only few who have been gifted the sight to see beyond the naked eye of human perceptibility, living inside. What we do know to be true is that a Great Change will not wait Earth-side. She has been giving warnings since we began tormenting her peace of mind. Aging her soils as if they were ours to control and pesticide. Beyond wrong, beyond right, The Beyond is to choose what can home here or be left to the sky.” She hears. Truth murmurs in full tongue, telling the four legged nations of her undispensed wrath, forgiving the group between the young and the wise. “Nothing you see of today will be here tomorrow in the same eye.” She heard. We breathe black, I walk brown. We see white, she sees sound. We bridge colors, he walks around. They scream logic, we sing loud. Keeper of the Sky won’t be silenced now. Keeper of the Sky, it is time you hold those sacred grounds.