We the living
huddled now
looking forlorn
at a brown box
feeling wind
at our backs,
come together
beside puffy
cedars and a
red-dirt mound.
For us
this singing land
is sufficient,
soft creek water
a blessing.
We find peace
in prairie skies,
hope in evening
stars.
For us
the cold moon
and white sun
are friends.
We do not
defy these
elements
that shape our
destiny,
but accept the
simple logic
of earth and sky
as more than
adequate
for endurance,
reason enough
to go on
to love and work
to die old
and content.
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