my tribe has many fingers
reaching deep into the silent valleys of my heart
like a winter mist... quiet, still, yet able to catch the tiniest flecks of light.

     my tribe has many fingers
extending out and pulling into
some common source of flesh, bone
and all life's gifts swirling in the palm of my hand.

     my tribe has many fingers
touching, pushing, embracing,
holding the fabric of our common voice
fingers gently weaving threads both coarse and knotty
and those, which are silken and smooth.
     like a spider in her web connecting fiber to fiber, supple and yet so strong...

     i remember a time before the tapestry fell and sank into muddy ground.
     a time when we wandered amidst the hills with ease.  we were not broken or ragged then, but full of life's secrets and completely empty to ourselves.
     now, weary hands push away the dirt in clods too numerous to count.  they say the dead do not suffer and that in the end, we shall be better for this...

     my tribe has many fingers
moving in and out of light, like a thousand fireflies
grateful and trusting that experience and choice cannot erase our divinity, and that somehow through this pain, we shall remember all, which we have forgotten.

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Last updated: December 1, 2003