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Disconnected Flowers Among Chirping Crickets


Theresa Cecilia Garcia

Quetzalcoatl's song.

Once he spoke the language of flowers
where white maundering clouds
fleeted across the moon, high in the Heavens.

A Mazatec Indian
in the mountain range of the Sierra Mazateca
disappears in the darkness
as light comes and goes
by intervals.

Between blank walls
to regions unknown
a Shaman grumbles and expostulates
visionary insights into obscurities,
perplexities of existence,
amusing phrases
of mushroom drunkenness.

Crossed legged on the floor
close to the fire
breathing the incense
of pressed flowers,
and ages old traditions;
he speaks in the night,
of chirping crickets
who join the crying
of each falling, dying
flake of snow.

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