Hanging on the garden room wall
is the drum I held
northwest in the Medicine Wheel
where I saw silver wolves
panting in the snow
mysterious eyes beckoning me.

A buffalo head
festooned with beaded feathers
dark eyes barely visible
patiently stare
from the center
of the circular membrane.

Has he forgotten the beatings
by men looking for their center
as if the deep vibrations
of their pounding
would loosen the knots
binding them to the thin veneer
of their routines?

Taking the drum from the wall
holding its body to mine
I thump it
my gut feels
its slow rhythms.

Again the Buffaloman
creeps from the brush of my memory
dancing around me
bells strapped to my ankles
and feathers to my head.

Who knows how the dancing and drumming
of that day
ripple across the twenty year lake
how those visions
have anchored me
in the deep water of my soul?

Maybe the buffalo knows
or the sweet spirit who named me
or the coyotes
howling in the distant night
or the compass of the Medicine Wheel
or the singing women
or the Great Mystery
its eternal fire
ablaze in the hearts
of that sacred band.

01/30/2008

Posted on 01/31/2008
Copyright © 2025 Glenn Currier