On Knik Arm, there with a dark moon on the rise—
I stood awestruck, once, as the sun floated into the east.
Sky blue pink sky blue pink sky blue snow,
fell in perfect repose, I sit cross-legged lotus style.
The morning dream in a distance, an inukshuk,
young-old-women of igneous rock standing
at rest, tall and safe. In the sunglow I roll
a handful of ice silt clay, roll it in my hands until
they’re red-rose red—I don’t let them bleed.
Let them feel with the texture of each grain.
I’m a round ball; minute ball.
A blossom ball of future-past-present.
My eyes flow, eyes of tears to the angels & archangels,
as I make wet, dry, warm, cold & fire flame. I’m off kilter.
I am twixt & torn with emotive thoughts of mortality.
Will this be the time?
Instead of going there, my mindfulness changes.
Rubbing 6 cents together life is richer in spans.
So, I’m riding the storm which engulfs me
all of a sudden: I bundle beat an Inuit drum;
with a snare string, red dots circling the polar star.
I see in my head daily this drum and this song:
Sky blue pink sky blue pink sky pink blues. I realize the silt
is not clay, but quicksand, in which I’m neck high.
– dg nanouk okpik