Spirit-Rider

My real name is "Of the night"
I come from my mother's unspoken wish,
Rehearsed in her mind
Over fiercely burning campfires.
I am in the smell of wood
As sparks make heat.
I come to her in this kind of vision:
In billowing smoke that tears her eyes
And chokes her chest full. 
She sees my face in the grey mist
That forms before fire ignites.
She thinks me a spirit-rider and
A fire-dancer whose soles won't burn, 
Leaping over rings of flames.
My hair hangs beaded, 
Changing hues as it catches light,
And I dance to the beat of war-drums
Around the bones of my ancestors. 

She will call me "Moonsliver" 
Because I come in the ghost-hour
 As the first edges of light
Approach a barely visible moon.
I will drop into this world quietly,
Without even a whimper
 And she will hear I live
By my whispered breaths
And know I am a listener.

As I grow, I'll be pure-hearted
And because I am pure-hearted
I'll have strong visions
Of buffalo roaming the plains and
Lead our men to them.
They will honor my medicine.

I will hear rivers sing praises
And listen for the Great Spirit
Who often speaks to me.
My hair will float on the wind,
A poem-catcher. 
I will teach beauty.

At night, I will dream of my people
Lay down with the dead
And hear my grandfathers' sighs.
My grandmothers will knead me,
Making bread of me,
And place me in the fire to bake 
 And I will rise
 To fight.

Tomorrow, my name 
Will be "Sun Shadow"
I'll remember the old ways,
Taste them on my tongue,
Lick my lips of buffalo juice,
And dress in leather hides.
I will lift my face to the winds,
Smell far off fires,
 Follow drifting curls of smoke,
And I will ride 
And ride,
Drop out of this world quietly,
Into the ghost-hour before dawn.


© 2005 by Diana Lundell. All rights reserved.