There was a time in our lives
when I could not find Matariki
in the sky. Do you remember
when you drew me
close and lit a fire
without matches?
It was like the clouds parted
so you could name the names
of the stars.
It has been many years since
we have talked, but I wonder,
would you walk with me,
once more,
into the forest
at night?
I can carry the lantern-light
if you bring the maps.
We shall both bear the weight
of our own water
but always,
we can share the snacks.
Sometimes I feel like a stone
at the bottom of the river
when I want to be like pounamu,
carved and curled and safe
around the nape of your neck.
Sometimes the mud runs thick,
especially after the rains.
Sometimes the sticks that have fallen,
feel stagnate
when they are not allowed to rot.
Will you walk with me once more,
even if the yellow eyes are watching?
Soon there could be no more kauri.
If we gather pinecones and twigs
and shelter from the wind,
if the fire keeps burning,
if the smoke swirls to surround us,
and I cough; will you tell me,
is this the good kind of choking?
Some seeds never sprout
beyond the forest floor.
Some saplings never feel
the sun under the shadow
of the canopies.
Once, we were dancing.
Twice, we encircled.
Do you remember
when we wore furs
and feathers
and buried our blood
beneath the ferns?
The pine needles still
fall from the trees.
Some creatures make nests
above the acidic soil
and some burrow deep
into the dirt until the rains
remind them to surface.
Some nights are for walking
and talking through memories.
Some nights there are constellations
brighter than the rest.
Some nights we can see
as far as we need.
We are seeds of this land
and the wind will carry us
where we need to grow.
