Near the place where rivers meet,
in the temple of forest we lived
in a rich depth of shadow, wavering
sunlight filtering in, cresting as waves
ebb and bloom once more,
as leaves fall then bud.
There my people built homes
of wattle and white clay
painted with the world vines,
leaves, and singing birds.
Indoors, a medicine wheel on every floor,
our reminder of the sacred way to live.
Then, dwellers of another century
learned from those Elders to weave a weir
for capturing fish, their webbing
held afloat at the edges by empty gourds
on the river, near the place where rivers meet.
At night they told of the roofs
embedded with pearls from the river,
shining in moonlight and morning sun
before the Spanish walked ashore
and took away their bags of pearls,
losing many along their path. The
heaviness, knowing the marvelous
beauty of a pearl, how it begins
and ends with pain,
and those Spanish left behind
a trail of hurt as they struggled with their theft.
That was when our Old Ones created songs
for the new generations, singing us into existence,
even this tomorrow
so we would know their stories,
their songs, the rattle of shells to lead our dances.
The ancients saw the world ahead,
new generations, even ours.
Today I am here where rivers meet,
elders awash in history from wars of the past,
and still the ancient gourds and flowers grow.
Holy the bones
of those who lived here in the daub and wattle
homes white as new stucco. In a midden
of waste they were broken to pieces, birds still
painted on them. Sacred pieces of floor upended,
medicine wheels still on them,
and now we have with us the many human bones
wrapped in white clean cloth,
our old ones being returned
to where they belong,
and we have come to see
these ancients home.
Before leaving, one of the grandmothers
gives to me a gourd, egg-shaped
and small, to take with me when I leave.
But some time ago I moved to a new river.
The egg was broken; seeds spilling out.
Sometimes there is an opening
in what you call time. That’s when you hear the voices
from long before your own silken life of a soul was born.
Your spirit traveled. Old ones came to meet it.
You were the future they sang for.
We are the ones. We are tomorrow.
I saved that gourd with the seeds broken out.
This year I planted only two. One
rose up from earth, strange being of another time
now tall with flowers never seen
that breathe one life in,
breathe out another.
One morning I woke to a song
I was singing, music so beautiful
it had never before been heard.
Singing is our language,
my path to this life
from the old, from now until tomorrow,
a beautiful morning song.
