An old Lakota, bone-wise, whispered
Of hearts turned stone without the green whispers
Of wind-tongued leaves, the soft handshakes
Of branch with branch. The man he spoke of,
Captive of his own concrete, his breaths
Short, as if rationed by the city\'s tight grip.
No tender shoot or bloom could reach him,
Nor the rustling counsel of rivers, the patient
Earth’s nurturing. He knew the wilt of compassion,
The shrivel of sympathy, witnessed
How men turned blind to their own kind.
So he kept the young ones near the tall grass
Where thoughts could bloom wide under big sky,
Where hearts learned the soft shuffle of bison,
The lullabies of brooks, growing
Gentle in their chest, beating a respect
For all that breathes, walks, and dies.
“Stay close,\" he’d say, \"to the world\'s softening,
For it is easy to harden without its touch.\"
It was his gift, this knowing—
A gift he gave, wrapped in the wilderness.