The Sacred Place
On Blue Mound, up behind Manfred’s place,
rolling hills stretch away to the horizon,
broken only by farms, while to the south lies
the town of Luverne, lush with trees.
I walk among scattered red quartzite and prickly pear,
wildflowers, birdsong and petroglyphs,
ancient images sketched in stone
by a long ago people.
Seated on a flat red rock, my eyes drift
from horizon to horizon. The city, the roads,
the farms and their cattle vanish. In their place,
the prairie. A vast, undulating mass of buffalo
moves on distant hills as curling wisps of smoke
drift up from campfires along a distant stream.
Then, one by one, the farms and cattle, the road and
the town in its lush greenness appear again.
From the writer’s shack above his house,
Manfred emerges and waves. It is he who invited me
to this sacred place with its ancient spirit.
I return again and again in memory.
In all the beautiful holy places I have been,
this is the only one where the spirit of the place
lets me see the ancient land as it once was.
A golden eagle’s “Creee”
pierces the silence.