Postcard Poem – Stones from Machu Picchu

I’m sitting here this morning poem-less. Nothing moves. No words rise to the surface begging to be written down. I’m holding in my hand a rough gray stone my husband brought me from that sacred mountain in the high Andes when he was there last spring. In the tradition of the Quechua peoples of the Sacred Valley, each mountain peak is occupied by a potent spirit known as an Apu. As I sit here this morning turning this nondescript gray sandstone over and over in my hand, I wonder what wisdom it holds, what knowing it carried in my husbands pocket all those miles. It keeps its own mind. Stones, I’ve learned, don’t take kindly to our putting words in their mouths. I wouldn’t presume with one come so far from such a noble lineage.

stones of machu picchu poem

The postcard:

Misti Again - A Memory, 1957 Georgia O'Keeffe

Misti Again – A Memory, 1957
Georgia O’Keeffe

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About wrensong

I am a poet who collects stones. I am a wanderer of creek beds and forests, canyons and high desert who, coming home, sometimes finds words to tell the story. I am a companion with others in the search for Deep, Wild Soul. I shape containers in time and space for others to come together to write, to tell their stories, to hold each other in the telling. I am a grandmother and the companion of a cat named Alaya. I often travel out into open country with a man who calls himself Dunewalker who has hung his hammock in my heart.
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