Come in where the fire casts shadows
of longing. Sit near each other.
Hold hands
while I tell you a story that has never been
told, a story with music, a flute and singing,
a drum and dancing, a story of life’s circle
and the hungry wolves
waiting for caribou, and the caribou lingering
over a feast of lichen, and ravens
poised in the trees at the edges
of the wolves’ eyes,
a story with a grandmother spider
stealing a piece of the sun,
a story with medicine plants
and sacred weeds,
a story of how men and women
found each other, of how coyote
got his cunning, of arrow boy,
of the owl's beak tapping, always
the owl, the death bird,
and the mouse, timorous, scuttling
into its den, a story of you, and you,
and you. What does it mean
this dream fruit?
Nothing more than to peel and eat
the sweet juicy flesh, to let its seeds
become part of your spirit.
Long after I am gone you will
remember a story that never happened
how things that never were
came into being.
Dolores Stewart, from Doors to the Universe
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