The scent of prayer is on my hands
from when I gathered it,
rose-red and burning
among the darker, duller limbs.
Cedar, I whisper,
and it shines from my fire-bundle.
Ladder, I think
as I gaze up through its branches.
Sweet yam of my winter camp,
smoke-tinged before the fire is lit,
not the red of sunset
but the close earth-red of animals
who can smell fresh kill
in the moon blood of women
and who circle
outside the firelight I am feeding