You’re coming with me, poor thing. You don’t know how to listen. You don’t know how to speak. You don’t know how to sing. I will teach you.” I follow… - Joy Harjo

Praise the rain; the seagull dive
The curl of plant, the raven talk — Praise the hurt, the house slack
The stand of trees, the dignity — Praise the dark, the moon cradle
The sky fall, the bear sleep — Praise the mist, the warrior name
The earth eclipse, the fired leap — Praise the backwards, upward sky
The baby cry, the spirit food — Praise canoe, the fish rush
The hole for frog, the upside-down — Praise the day, the cloud cup
The mind flat, forget it all — Praise crazy. Praise sad.
Praise the path on which we're led.
Praise the roads on earth and water.
Praise the eater and the eaten.
Praise beginnings; praise the end.
Praise the song and praise the singer.

Praise the rain; it brings more rain.
Praise the rain; it brings more rain.

To imagine the spirit of poetry is much like imagining the shape and size of the knowing. It is a kind of resurrection light; it is the tall ancestor spirit who has been with me since the beginning, or a bear or a hummingbird. It is a hundred horses running the land in a soft mist, or it is a woman undressing for her beloved in firelight. It is none of these things. It is more than everything.

Someone accompanies every soul from the other side when it enters this place. Usually it is an ancestor with whom that child shares traits and gifts