In stones are the footprints of my ancestors.
Walk softly and see if your foot fits those impressions.
As the branches of the Jack Pines brush against you,
feel the outreaching arms of those grandmothers
attempt to touch you, the new gift, to the people.
They have prayed for you to come here, to leave
your own imprints here where land is holy.
Breathe deeply of the fern and moss and birch and pine.
The air you take in has been breathed before.
On this air are the songs of my people, the moans,
the gentle prayers and praise that such as you should come.
Come, it says, cross-breathe with us and let our history
fill your lungs and muscles and cells and soul
with the thousand stories of bravery and courage,
with sorrow and soft caution to remember we are a people
of peace and longing for a separateness from a world
that would have all we are, rub us out and choke the life
from our customs and our language that tells the stories.
Set your paddle on the skin of Athabasca
and the watery arms that will pull you home.
Let the amniotic cradle of the canoe rock you
and take you through this land like dream-walking
and be renewed by the fresh bath of mist and motherly
wash that removes the clinging sediments of these days.
Cup your hands and drink the sacrament of unpolluted water
and give offerings of tobacco to bless those
that have pulled their way up this stream of belief
that staying tucked away where strangers could not easily come
to dam and damage our ways and land and peace-seeking hearts.
Set the fire tipi in a quiet meadow near the sweet grass ponds.
Feed it herbs, sacred fungus, and your prayers
for those who lit the place of prayers before you,
and those who will need those prayers tomorrow
when you are not here to make such meaningful moves
to remember who you are, who we are, what peace we sought.
Seek a way to have this all again,
in a new way, in this new world where earth is oil,
air is carrying a thousand pollutants of negativity,
water gives our secrets away and leaves a trail
to the outside places and the inside holy pools
that are yet to be found, and the charred remains
of our yesterdays will speak of what fire can do
when it carries prayers for peace. Let no pain
push us under, take our breath away, drown the spirit
of survival, or burn our ancient memories. Peace.
Let there be peace for what came before, what comes now,
what comes after. It is our way. It is the way for all.
Tags: Native Culture, Poems by Shewolf
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