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Looking into my window
The Snow was like a Virgin
Waiting for footpints, tire treads, and
Soot yet to come.
She dreamed she rode through
Montana and Wyoming on horseback,
She climbed the Himalayas
In her sleep.
She built a Yurt in remote Mongolia.
She sang with Throat Singers from Tuva
Way out upon the grassy steppe.
There were no footprints in the Snow.

She drummed and chanted in New Mexico
All night dancing around the ecstatic Fire.
She carved sculptures and fetishes
With the Innuit
Of seals, whales, and shaman's tales.
There were no footprints in the Snow.

She searched for the face of God
In every map of every culture,
There were no footprints in the sand,
The rainforest, the mountains;
There were no footprints in the Snow.
All languages carry the Sacred
All footprints walk with Spirit.

About the author:
Nancy Dakota Adlman is a psyhcotherapist of over 25 years and a shamanic practitioner. She writes poetry with shamanic themes. She also provides workshops, on line sessions, circles, apprenticeship training, and individual shamanic empowerment and healibg sessions. She lives in the Montlciar, NJ /NYC area. She also has an interest in promoting indigneous music and culture.


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