Home

I trudge along the forest path,
wicker basket in hand,
bathed in the glow of a fading sun.
Above me, the stars stitch stories of youth—
Beaver, Turtle, Buffalo—smiling down.

They are the last untouched things,
preserved by distance, kept safe by time.
Distance was their best friend.
I step into a clearing, suntanned
fingers skimming the overgrown grass.

I set my basket down,
lifting my arms to the endless sky.
What did we ask for?
Only home—
the rivers, the trees, the stars...

Everything I ever wanted
was to sit beside my nukumi,
wrapped in quiet stillness,
watching the constellations
before they slipped too far away.