Native

I can hardly be called one of your people.

One-thirty-second is terribly small
And yet an invisible spider’s-silk thread
Ties my single to your many.
My path lies hundreds of miles from yours,
My experiences even farther.
Science says no,
But my heart cries

Yes
Yes
Yes.

It is that same blue sky
That I long to lie under,
Wondering if some day
It will swallow me up.
It is that same wide plain
That speaks not of barrenness
But of life, living, and hidden things.
It is that same isolation
That never feels lonely,
Because the Spirit around
Always speaks

In the wind
In the rain
In the soil
In the time.

Beyond biology to bones and beneath,
To marrow and morrow and massive,
To sense and soul and spirit and

Ssssssss.

I can hardly be called one of your people,
But our hearts form

A tribe
A nation
A family
A home.