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My Beliefs

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,

one for each outward song                from our camp.

My man leads our clan . . . he is searching . . .

but everyone knows I give him counsel . . .

but 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

of the seeds . . .

But how can I ever

convince men to believe?

The ghosts say, at the darkest

moment of the night, how I am,

myself, a seed . . .

but how can I believe?

- Ward Kelley

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