STORY TELLING
Then
my father tells us stories.
Long stories
made up of many words.
His words have power.
They have strength.
They seem to hold me.
They seem to warm me.
They seem to feed me.
My father's words,
they comfort me.
His words have power.
My father tells
The Star Story.
"When the world was being made,
being made."
My father tells us,
"When the Gods were
placing stars,
the stars,
the stars in patterns
in the sky,
coyote stole the star bag."
Coyote spilled the stars out
in the sky,
helter skelter in the sky,
when the world was being made.
Softly
my father tells it,
the story of the stars.
Outside,
the wind
and the night
push against
my mother's hogan door.
Outside,
big flakes of snow
fall thickly,
fall softly,
fall steadily.
Inside,
snow water drips
down the smoke hole
and the words of
my father's voice
drop softly
into the quiet
of my mother's hogan.
