it is not our place to count the tick of seconds
but to let time measure for us
yellow days and deep-blue nights
thus
we looked up to the Mother Of The Home
but she would not gaze our way
and we were footsore
then
by the bitter river the First Slender One marched
and brought the Planters to dance
at the edge of the sky
but our fine corn
handsome and catching sunbeams
rotted from the inside
so
when the stars had wheeled once more
round the Northern Fire
our corn arrowed sunwards again
and died as quickly as it lived
our prayers to Changing Woman were bitter
bad smoke or dirt on the wind
and
we let our ploughs rust
dropped our hoes
we spat at the Jicarillas and they at us
all we had left was spit
but
in a great circle we danced round a coyote
and its panic was a bolt of lightning
towards the sunset horizon
we begged to follow it
now
again we see the mountains of home
and we sing
beauty before us
beauty behind us
beauty around us
in beauty we walk
it is finished in beauty
Gold trophy winner
Adding your comment:
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Meg
