THE HOGAN
My mother's hogan is dry
against the gray mists
of morning.
My mother's hogan is warm
against the gray cold
of morning.
I sit in the middle
of its rounded walls,
walls that my father built
of juniper and good earth.
Walls that my father blessed
with song and corn pollen.
Here in the middle
of my mother's hogan
I sit
because I am happy.
