Many Moons

In our wigwams we hear tom-toms Like hearts beating out a greeting; Seasons in tune with thirteen moons. In the moon of red grass. Let the white man come. There is room enough for all. In the moon of green grass. Let the white man come. There is grass enough for all. In the moon when ponies shed. Let the white man come. There are ponies enough for all. In the moon of strawberries. Let the white man come. There are berries enough for all. In the moon when lilies bloom. Let the white man come. There are blooms enough for all. In the hot moon, we will sweat. Let the white man come. There is heat enough for all. In the moon of wild rice. Let the white man come. There are bowls enough for all. In the moon of falling leaves. Let the white man come. There are leaves enough for all. In the moon of rutting deer. Let the white man come. There are deer enough for all. In the moon when deer shed horns. Let the white man come. There are horns enough for all. It is the hard moon of strong cold. Let the white man come. There are lodges enough for all. In the moon when wolf packs run. Let the white man come. There are more than enough for all. In the moon of sore eyes. Let the white man come. There will be enough for all. The prairie wind is blowing chill, Wildly waving through the grass, Erasing signs of Indian trails. In the moons of the white man, Strong hearts seek Indians return. Is there room enough for all? Will our wigwams hear the tom-toms Like hearts beating out a greeting; Seasons in tune with thirteen moons?