I long to
embrace native chant.
Climb barefoot across mountains (not of my creation),
with little connection to yesterday,
and only echoes of reason to guide me.
I long to appease ghost warriors
set free the spirit of my father and his father and his before him,
I long to touch fingers not my own,
dance carefree along the spine of an unlikely future
with no regard to pride or symbolic dressing.
I long to kiss the flame.
Let fire seduce my senses.
Inhale gusty winds of chances taken,
and breathe deeply
(deeper than my mother could or her mother, or her mother before her).
I long to live on fertile soil, cultivate olive branch and mustard seed,
reach forever into imagination and uncover freshly sewn beginnings,
gather wisdom in the fall of my years,
and cattails in the spring.
I long to answer the call of distant drumming
recognize myself in the eyes of strangers,
discover my purpose in their seasons.
I long to soar with my brother the eagle,
recreate his flight pattern,
take comfort in his meandering.
I long to soar beside him again someday,
someday maybe,
but not today.
Today
I discover myself
content to
tuck little girls beneath feather comforters,
breathe deeply their giggles,
embrace their particular longings,
wrap gentle prayer around tiniest dreams
and guide them toward contentment.