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Ode to Aaron Copeland
Oh, Aaron Copeland, you lead me
from this music hall
to the great open plains
where grasses flash
around bison grazing
and undulate, swept
by serpentine winds
into waves chasing
each other like kids
following the leader
Oh, Aaron Copeland, you lift me
up on sensuous sounds,
see how I float freely on
summer’s soft warm thermals,
golden eagle greeting
The Great Spirit of Cree,
Cherokee, prairie people
singing of ancient tribal tales,
the land spreading across
red ranges yellowed and browned
Oh, Aaron Copeland, you leave me
there, harmonizing with
Whitman’s words, Sandburg’s songs
until I am the land,
my poems are prayers of peace
small voice besides small stream
started in high mountain
meadow, slipping down around
moist mossy rocks adding
tones that talk to those who
listen
Donald Everett Axinn
From Sliding down the Wind
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