Red candles, red roses around you now—
scatter of petals across the floor, on your coat
like paw prints against the snow, curl
of birch bark, bed of fox fur under your head.
Aishan, Kirgi for Moon Heart, grandson
of the wind and moon—we sing your crossing
on a renegade gust.
Shanadii—shaman granddaughter of Geronimo—
named you stonecarrier of her Earth circle,
gifted the stone in a medicine pouch,
placed it on your chest as you lay in repose.
Today in this circle of stone, this cycle of wind
and moon, we sing Ohila—Apache crossing song—
sing it to the six directions.
You crouched at the edge, waited for your two-legged
to let you go, so you could cross
from her arms, a Bodhisattva in wolf body—
carried on the wind, gray legs twitching as in dreamtime.
Wayne Lee (wayneleepoet.com) is an educator/journalist living in Santa Fe, NM. Lee’s poems have appeared in Tupelo Press, The New Guard, Sliver of Stone, Slipstream, and other publications.