Little child I was when I first heard the cry,
That croak of choked emotion
Erupting from the heron taking flight.
All she contains, a clay cavern of silence held,
Her own cry she feared to utter.
Quiet now, hush child.
The heron, that solo sailor of the sky, marked her
With the medicine of the Hermit, the Sage,
The one who lives within herself.
It is safest there.
I see her left behind,
Sitting on a city street corner waiting.
Long lost, now found.
Long alone, now self-assured.
Long grieving, now healing.
Child come, the only one who can save you is me.
I turn my face the raging sun
And cry, and cry, and cry.
Thank you, wild sister of grasses tall
And flowers bright, of wind so soft,
And trees so brave,
Of nesting birds, and buzzing hummers
That zing through the scented air.
Thank you, wild sister, the child has come
To lay the great stone down
Of grief, of rage, of resentments bitter.
We are here to braid grasses with our hair
And sing our song of coming home
With voices unmuted, wise and strong.
All rights reserved – written by Lydia Nitya Griffith