From a descendant of the tribes of Europe,
Whose clan was from a land where she will never belong,
With those dead cheiftans still living as ghosts
In my twisted strands well wound
With old swords and sacred grains
Like great grandmothers and their salty spells
No one says anymore
Yet I breath, drink and eat
So I ask how I may honor you?
An orphan, with no seed jar from my ancestors.
But might I be your witness?
Might I sit with you, quietly and still, unarmed, vulnerable?
And sing you a love song?
May I put my ear to your ground?
I do feel the heartwood beating when I lean my heart against these birch trees and maples,
May I lean some more?
I feel as though I am empty
Though I have lots of tears to offer you,
They come from rivers I have never met but that were ordained by ancient, since murdered Gods
And may I leave a strand of my hair?
To you, and your wild Manitou
That hunt my homeless, colonial soul
No matter how many times I run from the fear of what I might destroy or take too much of,
I pray I leave you no violence.
To your antlers and coyotes and berry filled bellies, I must admit that I'm not sure how to stop the conquest
Even here, alone, in the woods.
And these hands to you
Seed planters always.
Amen, so be it