We wound circles to Pink Floyd and powwow, and skidded when the music
Stopped for musical chairs, beneath balloons in honor of baby’s first year.
She’s starting to walk.
I’m amazed at what gets paved by the grind of time
By forgiving. Or do I say, surrender?
I should take rest easy then, this day near equinox marking a festival of crossroads.
We had good weather.
Still I tumble relentlessly over this sleepless hump of worry.
I’m restless for vision, the next song.
For something other than the electrical switch that only takes me back
To where I started:
A small life on planet Earth, and what we imagine here in a time of decay.
When Rainy called with the latest on her step-girl’s pregnancy,
We questioned what happened during the lacing of the delicate web of formation:
Pesticides in the salad?
Or the old uranium tailings that are everywhere in the winds crossing Gallup?
I had to think through the dark and the dark was no longer a beautiful
Pathway, to a stomp dance in the middle of a field of stars.
Funky, this struggle.
Think musical chairs, I tell myself. And begin to imagine the falling away.
Each baby with ten fingers and toes, each dance taken.
The beauty prayer will bear me up and we will get there,
Yes we will, said the dark.
c Joy Harjo September 25, 2006