The Anasazi learned how to capture time.
Corn husk wrapped, the shaman placed it
In the stone laid foundation of eternity,
Carefully, thoughtfully, purposefully.
Tucked into a ledge of rock, hidden,
From what or from who, time only knows.
Holding its breath time slumbered.
How many seconds has it counted, dreamed,
Blanketed in a thousand years of waiting.
Vultures soar and ravens cry, remembering.
They were here before time and remain now.
Feathered vessels of forgotten souls,
The birds sing the Anasazi songs, calling.
The builder’s lives have fled this place,
Spirit hands remain pressing upon rock,
Their sweat the spring dripping, waiting,
An imprint upon consciousness, upon time.
The stacked stones the strength and belief
Of the people, the owners of this moment,
This grandeur, this creation, this forever.
Ask the question of these dusty walls, why?
A whisper returns, “Release me and I will tell.”
Time waits bound by the past, by the sacred corn,
Waiting for the people to return, they are gone.
As we will all be one day, except for time.
The shaman hands cannot unwrap the sacred husks,
And so, the Anasazi and time wait, till the end of time.
Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour