In death, perhaps we are like water
making our way ever deeper from sand and sky.
Maybe we fly, linger and hover for awhile
and the dream of becoming a bird is real.
Like stars we float oceans of night skies
move toward divine light in a swooping wave
pushing upwards, embryonic waters
spilling over the soul again
In these woods
where I am small, I watch breath rise and fall
in these pines of a hundred years or more
from pine cones, skyward moving slow.
I watch rain running down craggy bark,
soaking softly the moss and flowers below.
In the summer sun of heat, I lose myself complete
in the fragrant warmth of pinewood air.
The moss - yellow, green
in waves, it hangs wispy from the trees
Here where evening brings the birds and breezes quivering,
the wind shakes the forest trees, deep and echoing
the ravens woods 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.