CAT'S CRADLES
The day moves slowly.
My father does not come back
along the trail.
It is far to the Trading Post.
The snow is deep.
I think of my father
and his concho belt.
I look at my mother's finger.
One finger looks bare
without its turquoise ring.
I pull my sleeve down
over my bracelet.
Perhaps
I should have given it
to my father.
My grandmother comes to see us.
She brings a piece of bread
for me
and for my mother
to eat with our meat.
She brings a piece of string.
She shows me how
to make Cat's Cradles.
She shows me how
to make "It-Is-Twisted."
We make Bird's-Nest and Butterflies
and Coyotes-Running-Apart
with the piece of string.
