Blemish of rain on swollen frames,  

almost invisible

measures another morning,

a ray of light tips the balance

of piled shadows, as their darknesses,

resplendent, nudge a half-visible moon.

 

What of the dark shape

making its way in the background?

Colossal its head.  Pierced hands,

bent under a pile of knotted tensions,

navigate the blindness.

Here, not transcendent,

I stand before the shaman.

 

At the bottom-well of memory depositories  

the seer speaks of famine,

leavened and soft.

The flesh of earth receives me again.

Under his hands, a loaf of bread rises,

develops a golden crust,    

steam fogs my glasses -  

for a moment I cannot see.

 

A pilgrim, I have nothing to share -

the shaman teaches me how to eat,  

how to be generous,

how to break bread without a breach of faith,  

how to withstand time with my mouth.

 

In the dark, there are objects to touch:

a pine cone reminds of grandsons,  

tobacco and sage faithful to each other

remind of the time we lay on moist earth,  

bodies not denied or chipped away  

by the mortality of these infertile lands,

stone onto stone, roots  

naked, smooth, raging-with,  

of the same mind.