In these woods
where I am small, I watch breath rise and fall
I think the pines must be a hundred years or more,
from pinecones moving skyward and very slow.
I watch rain meandering down the craggy bark,
to water moss and tiny flowers below.
In the summer sun of heat, I lose myself
complete in the fragrant warmth of pinewood air.
The hanging moss is yellow, green
waving wispy from the trees or foraged,
and tucked into twiggy nests, left from
Here where evening brings the birds and breezes quivering,
the wind it shakes the forest trees
deep and echoing,
the ravens will come
and speak to thee.
From mud walled homes
these remnants come, artifacts of shell and bone
leather shoes and deerskin coats
woolen blankets and woven rugs,
baskets for storing grain and corn.
Grinding stones and sun bleached bones
antiquities and memories found in fields of sand,
necklace beads of finest hammered silver
now forgotten and lost, and too the river's water.
Came a sorrowful war with bullet guns
that pierced the heart of every man
no match for shooting arrows.
Living on the ocean, I am hunting fish and mollusks
my kin - otters and whales, wide eyed we go swimming
the night waves ripple soft in lullabies, I float
basking and bobbing at sea, moon cradled and starlit.
My lips are sparkling, salt flecked, my eyes sleep and dream,
imaging the unknown worlds that could be.
My mind of shooting arrows, trailing off in a myriad of directions
finding resonant moments of solace and home.
All the days, swum in a variance of blues
oceans deep and streaked in silver shoals
day skies that fade and die, into nights
plush and indigo blue.
Clear water, drinking in - earth soaked
purple violets and fiddle headed ferns
cold bulbs and garden tubers, buds and flowers unfurl.
This mating clash of birds, their chirpy squawks and words,
an aromatic lilac trance, a variance of blue.
Grass and toes, cool and cold
northern winds of spring.
In bars wandering amid the metal and cages,
amid the loud banging of voices, dull as broken bells
rung from the sloshing of drinks, in shirts red inked with wine.
Smoulder and fog, cigarettes now drawn and dead
down this cold alley of vagrants painting nightly,
wildly until dawn.