We know this table has been a fire pit in days long past,
a flat-topped boulder, a grassy river bank,
a row of seats along side a highschool ball game.
It is the gathering place of women who
know their history and the names of their ancestors,
who tell one another in stories that live
among the words they use. Stories that keep them breathing.
This table, with it's polished oak surface, kept shining
with canned wax has been the heart-place home of the
people through ages. It is the place
where the circle is widened, children are raised
and Warriors seek council, leave reverent.
This table has woven whole societies, birthed legends;
dreaming the life of family/clan/band/tribe
into beads, quills and brain-tanned hides, sewing
them into the skins of daughters with the sinew of survival.
This place is strong like the August sun on the high plains,
and January winds on the prairie, enduring as the work of knives,
awls and the love that are used as tools here in this sacred place.
Here divinity smells of new sage bundles, green braids of
sweetgrass, fry-bread and venison stew. It is warm
as a summer thunderstorm, a mother's arms or a lover's
lingering kiss. This table has existed in a thousand
forms through centuries of stories. This table, this
talk, this knowledge, this way of keeping real history.