My Roots

My roots are two pairs of wrinkly hands,
and hearty laughter,
in a softly lit kitchen,
with silver lining memories from early days,
before dark hair,
turned grey.

My roots live in a warm home,
with plush carpet floors,
walls sprawled,
with flowering lineages
that beckon from
their well-worn frames.

They speak Lakota in the sweatlodge,
and ask the stars about my name.

In my dreams,
they chart a path,
for growth,
even when I insist,
        I’m not yet ready–

My roots teach me,
how to sing,
a prayer, guide me,
in strength when I feel weak,
and reassure my safety.

When no one watches,
they dress themselves in moss,
and leave me a trail,
of dewdrop kisses.

When no one knows,
they make ceyaka sun tea,
leaving the sweetness,
when I need it most.

My roots comfort me,
when my heart is breaking,
and sing to me,
when I am most in need.

They remind me,
to smudge,
to sprinkle lavender buds,
and cedar into a ball of sage.
They tell me,
        Do not worry,
and show me how fast,
prayer can be made.

They sound like a powwow,
laughter at sundance,
coyotes in the prairie,
at night,
and when soup,
begins boiling.

My roots smell like my grandma’s permed hair,
and speak with humility,
like my grandpa,
hug like my mom,
sneeze like my sister,
and cry,
like me.

My roots dress in ribbon skirts,
but change into pants when things get dirty,
and they braid my hair for me.

They dance in thunderstorms,
take naps in riverstreams,
and whisper my capabilities,
through the mist of my deepest dreams.

They tell me stories
carried from all those that came before me,
and sing me to sleep on nights my mind is breaking.

My roots keep me on my feet,
and remind me of the possibility,
for peace.