My Great-Grandmother, Great Mother

My great-grandmother is sitting outside in the winter sun, with a double-felted deel, snow white hair, and a hat, just taking it in. I play at her feet, and I make a racket, running fast about, I raise dust in front of Great Mother, whom even the birds ignore. The quiet fire in her gentle soul was once very fierce they say but all I see when I look at her, is the calm warmth in her eyes, while I play at her feet with the clouds, rocks the desert spirits, and the sky. She moves with effort, no complaints, she takes upon all the worldly cares feeds, clothes, and shelters me, fetching and tending, to food, water, and fire-- Ah, fire, they say, she broke hearts of men who rode over mountains who crossed icy rivers; and they say, she knew, Knew, and her hair grew more gray, when five of her seven children-- the exact moments they each died. As I play with the clouds, the rocks, the desert spirits, and the sky, I know my Great Mother-- she lives in them all now, somehow in that cold winter sun, she's still sitting there with a double-felted deel, and a hat. As I play at her feet, running fast about sometimes I glimpse her snow white hair, and, she takes upon herself all of my worldly cares.