It’s no wonder we feel

the ache of separation

from the web we

were once weaved

upon

and through,

the tribe that knitted

the stray threads

of our pain together

with compassion

and story.

Our bodies,

still melancholy

for the loss of

environment,

desperately trying

to make sense of

a way of life that

that grew out of

our hands and

into our minds,

we split like wood,

we mourn the loss

of an expressive land,

of the elder who’s

broad hearts

carried the pain

of the youth,

remedied their anger

with purpose and ritual,

every plant a teacher

we were once

an apprentice to

everything

the teachings of

the sun, the horizon’s

vertebrae stretching

out as our own,

our spirits belonging

to a home that

baked like clay

into its

hearthstone.

Now we live still -

as cut flowers,

the fingernail moon

no longer our counsellor

the fire pit no longer

our council,

the creek no longer

our mender

each other,

no longer as

sacred

as ourselves.