I stumbled across a prompt some days ago that stuck in my head: Tell a creation story. I actually wrote one, in prose, some years ago, during a staff training at the treatment center for First Nations families dealing with recovery issues, where I worked. I may post that later. For now, my poem took me in a different direction.
The Iroquois speak
of a world
that exists high above
the world we know,
where life is much
as it is on earth.
Sky Woman fell to earth
from the Sky World,
and the giant Turtle
provided his back
for her to rest,
and this is how
we began.
There is a
Tree of Peace
that I visit.
Its name is Opa,
and it is as old
as all the trees of time.
When I rest my hands
on its rough trunk,
I feel its ancient heart,
beating,
and understand
what Endurance
feels like,
my heart
slowing its beat
in compassion
for all that
it has witnessed,
all that it has weathered,
all the storms
and lashing winds,
the crack of lightning,
the hot summers of thirst,
the times when
the chain saws came near
with their blood-curdling sounds.
Sky Woman peopled
this world
with dreamers,
all of whom
spend their days
gazing at the sky,
our cellular memory
vaguely recalling
the height from which
we have fallen.
We spend our lives
trying to
get it back.
* linked to dVerse Poetry Pub's open link, hosted by Brian Miller
