Return/al

In the cool dust
of the round room,
I return

Home is the place
that I am.
That I am with
the Grandmothers
of ten thousand moons.

We work
with our hands
and sit
near the ground.
We build fires
and grind corn.
We grab snakes
and roast them.

Our bricks, sun-dried,
are strong
and lasting,
forming perfect circles,
portals for smoky light shafts,
ladders to the other World.

Dust gathers
and scatters,
but I remain.

My father walks away,
testing my will.
He is surprised at
my resolve
and doesn't understand
that, or how,
I know
where
I belong.

Up the smooth-worn
ladder, in the
earthen room,
closer to today
than before
I returned.

~MH, 11/2007