Wicked Wings of Weeping
Cast off your wicked, wicked wings of weeping
burn the cloak ‘neath which you’ve lain sleeping
the hills demand that, which lies in your keeping
the power to name all the things
which died
alone.
No more secrets
cry the waters
of the earth.
The voices call
till their throats turn raw
that you must put your hand
in the Coyote’s paw
no answer will you receive
but your questions
will cause the birds
to grieve
at last the remedy that redeems.
Dance to the tune that plays
now that you’ve returned your heart
to the keyhole in the ground.
The thunder in the distance
forms a name
that belongs to you.