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Inside
How something is made flesh no one can say. The buffalo soup becomes a woman who sings every day to her horses or summons another to her private body saying come, touch, this is how it begins, the path of a newly born who, salvaged from other lives and worlds, will grow to become a woman, a man, with a heart that never rests, and the gathered berries, the wild grapes enter the body, human wine which can love, where nothing created is wasted; the swallowed grain takes you through the dreams of another night, the deer meat becomes hands strong enough to work. But I love most the white-haired creature eating green leaves; the sun shines there swallowed, showing in her face taking in all the light, and in the end when the shadow from the ground enters the body and remains, in the end, you might say, This is myself still unknown, still a mystery.