Crystal, glass, olivella shells,
powers of tusk and bone.
These polished bits of moon
rumble thunder in my hand.
Octaves of wind hum silken voices
of time and sorcerers, of people
who sprouted from earth,
those who translated tides and stones
and conversed with fish.
Here is darkness that dreams
of light, of the hollow corridor
where death flowers into life.
Colors pour through my veins.
The past regards me with its beaded eye,
reflects me back to the beginning.
I warm my hands on fires of creation.