Wherever I was born,
the sky comes to me.
The lost island is found.
The day returns and I walk
with the peace of waves at my feet.
I am at home with myself.
Things return to me,
the seasons, animals,
bravery which grows with the feathers
of the sacred eagle.
I return to the shadows of a street,
a railroad,
a bay.
The shadows of apple trees follow me.
My feet have memorized the stones.
I hear the echo of air
off the buildings.
I hear voices
from a drawer of old letters.
Faces leap up.
The touch of the paper
feel of kisses,
a smell of confinement
in the room of my sorrow.
My soul struggles with its distance.
The blood of Indians flows in me.
I answer the trees.
I hear the calls of dead wolves.
I never forget who I love.
I walk into the sea.