There are no patches of grain
within a moon's trek from our camp . . .
this is what the scouts report, four
of them, one for each path of wind,
for each outward song
from our camp.
My man leads our clan . . . he is searching . . .
but everyone knows I give him counsel . . .
no one truly knows.
The ghosts of my mothers speak to my
dreams . . . they tell me I can make
a field, I can give a birth to this old
patch we labored over so long . . .
I can show the men this magic
seeds . . .
But how can I ever
men to believe?
The ghosts say, at the darkest
moment of the night, how I am,
a seed . . .
how can I believe?
- Ward Kelley