Nibi

As the Water Walkers arrive to the end of their journey I offer this found poem written by Sue Erickson. It's a hard poem, reflecting their hard, arduous journey taken with strength. This is their mission, as the 'keepers' and educators. I thank the people of the Mother Earth Water Walk and send a healing balm your way for your feet and legs. Strong as they may be, they've worked hard.

Also, there's some new photos at their website listed again at the bottom of this post. This is the third of four posts on water here at Flor y Canto. These three have had a hardness, I know. Hang in there. The last one will be a little different take on water. But for now, in honor of the Water Walkers, one last difficult one.


NIBI – by Sue Erickson

Anishinaabekwe, the Daughters,
You are the keepers of the water.
I am Nibi…water…the sacred source,
the blood of Aki, Mother Earth,
the force filling dry seeds to green bursting,
I am the womb’s cradle.
I purify.

Nibi, the lifegiver…
forever the Circle’s charge
I have coursed through our Mother’s veins,
Now, hear my sorrow and my pain
in the river’s rush, the rain…
I am your grandchildren’s drink.
Listen, Daughters, always,
you are the keepers of the water.
Hear my cry,
for the springs flow darkly now
through the Heart of Aki.

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www.motherearthwaterwalk.com

Canary in the Mine

I think of myself as a rather large canary in the mine.

When I was a kid we would play daily on the Kalamazoo River that flowed near my home. The town was one of those small industrial towns that had quite a few factories and a couple of foundries. Upstream from town was one of the foundries. We would follow the river on long summer days, on the hunt for adventures, critters to discover, animal prints in the mud to follow, frogs and crayfish to catch -- kids on the river kind of lazy days. There was one spot on the river just outside of town that we'd stop at that caught our attention; a place where warm water trickled down a hillside from the rear of the foundry property.

I'm sure few people saw this riverside part of the countryside except for maybe the occasional hunter or fisherman, but being kids walking and exploring the area, we stayed. We explored. We played. The water was warm and inviting --  fun and intriguing because if we waded in past the bright orange-colored shore and into the collecting pond of warm water to the side, we would sink down past our knees into the sand below. We called it quicksand and would spend hours splashing in the strange water pretending we were in a Tarzan movie rescuing one another from quicksand.

Years later I learned this site had been cordoned off by the EPA in the late 90's as a toxic wasteland. The earth of the property is contaminated with a long list of long ago buried carcinogenic chemicals that over the years seeped down into the ground and drained into the river. The EPA document shows this spot on the map as the same pool of orange, warm quicksand water we played in years ago.

The waters were poisoned, along with the earth, and my young body. Back in the early 60's there wasn't much thought given to the dumping of toxic waste beyond putting it into barrels and burying it. Today, the foundry sits empty, the land declared "brown land" - land that must sit idle because it can't be sold, built upon, or used. The land, the water, animals, plants, and myself have all been the recipients of the consequences of dumping toxic chemicals into the midwest countryside - unfortunately, nothing unusual in small towns across the land.

My body reflects the earth's. The same tracks cross us both. As a resident of the Great Lakes region one of my responsibilities is to be a guardian of the fresh water - your grandchild's drink.

This is the only water we get. What we see is all we get. There is NO new water. It's the same finite amount of water that's been recycling on our planet for thousands of millennia. The same water the dinosaurs drank millions of years ago ago was pissed out onto the ground, evaporated, and eventually fell as rain re-entering the earth's water cycle. This process has been going on for eons without problems until our modern industrial age.

What can we do?

We can start by appreciating the fact that over 1 BILLION people TODAY do not have clean drinking water. If we appreciate this limited resource we won't squander it. We'll protect it because there's a high probability that the 1 billion without clean water today will grow to become more tomorrow.

We are the lucky ones. We are the privileged ones with clean, treated water. We share in collective responsibility to our children, to our children's children, and to the children across the world, many of whom will walk many miles with buckets and jugs to a dirty watering hole in order to carry some precious, suspicious, brown fluid home for their family, grateful for the only water they have - the only water we all have.

The Water Walkers

I often think it was a very big mistake that this body of mine, made of generations of high desert, chile-fired blood, was born in these wet lowlands of the Great Lakes region. But here I am in this land of abundant water. Whatcha gonna do? Best to be thankful for what one has; it's a good place to start. We are fortunate here in the Great Lakes region to not have to worry about drought like many places of the earth. You see, we sit on twenty-two per cent of the WORLD'S fresh water. It's a great privilege and even greater responsibility.

In 2003 a small group of Anishinabe women and men led by two Anishinabe Grandmothers began the Mother Earth Water Walk to raise awareness of the responsibility we carry as caretakers of almost one quarter of the world's fresh water supply. Each year they have circumnavigated on foot, one of the great lakes. This year they are walking along the St. Lawrence Seaway as this precious water makes its way to the ocean. They are out there walking right now, through rain, cold, sun or heat; daily they continue their walk, praying, honoring and awakening people along the way. They do this for their children, their grandchildren and the next seven generations. They do this for all of us, from those of us who live near these great bodies of water, to those of us living in some urban setting far from any fresh water resource. In the most basic sense, they pray with their footsteps, each one a step of gratitude - for water.

Please take a moment to stop by their website. Visit their daily log of their journey for water. Leave them a note of gratitude and encouragement in their guest book. They need the encouragement as they are ordinary folks with ordinary feet, with legs and backs that ache. They sacrifice their comfort to offer this prayer so we all may benefit. Let them know that we care; that their poetic prayer with their feet is heard throughout Turtle Island (the Americas); give them a "megwetch" - a thank you.

At the very least, the next time you pour a nice, clean glass of water, take a moment to notice and recall how fortunate those of us who have clean drinking water are; much of the world does not have this most basic need satisfied. For this, we must not forget, but instead, remember and be grateful.

For more information: www.motherearthwaterwalk.com

para mijo living on the north sea

When you tell me of all the history in the streets and buildings when you leave the comfort of your North Sea harbor and visit Amsterdam, I can see you, young man, full of life, vigor and strength, walking tall. Carry your ancestors with you. They too, walk those streets with you; they will walk with you down every road you go throughout the world, and every sea you cross. But you knew that.

Although we've all heard her story before, this video brings Anne, the writer, across strongly. This is one answer as to why we write. Keep writing mijo.

And may All Love surround you - always.
You know ours goes with you.

Music by Jochan Pachelbel-Video by Teodor The Glass Man



"I've found there's always some beauty left in nature, sunshine, freedom, in yourself; these things can all help you. Look at all these things, then you find yourself again, and God, and then you regain your balance." - Anne Frank

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Info for when you visit Amsterdam again: www.annefrank.org

spring morning haiku

morning birds calling:
wake up. greet the day. it waits
for no one, old fool.

Today's Message brought to you by The Rats

by London Street Artist - Banksey

I have a special fondness for public art, especially art in the public domain - here today; gone tomorrow. Here's a link to Banksey, who I just discovered, along with a lot of other good stuff at stumbledupon.com

www.stumbleupon.com/toolbar/#url=http%253A%252F%252Fvillageofjoy.com%252Famazing-graffiti-art-by-bansky%252F

Banksey's website:www.banksy.co.uk/

When I was a kid I used to pray every night for a new bicycle.
Then I realised God doesn’t work that way, so I stole
one and prayed for forgiveness. -emo phillips

Ghost Dance: We Shall Live Again

In the 1800's, as the population of the First Nations people was being decimated, a Paiute medicine man by the name of Wovoka had a vision. During an eclipse of the sun he fell unconscious and remained so for several days. When he returned, he brought with him the vision of the Ghost Dance. This was a vision, a message to the people that they would rise again. Despite the death and destruction that had fallen upon them - through the spreading of the dance and a dedication to righteous living, the people would live, the buffalo would return and the old ways of life before the conquest would return. The People would live again; a resurrection of a different sort. This message spread throughout Indian Country, lifting the People with hope for a return of the old ways in a new day. As the message of hope spread among Indians, the same message struck fear in the new inhabitants and with an equal zeal; the Ghost Dance was outlawed. When several hundred cold and hungry, unarmed Lakota dancers were surrendering to the Seventh Cavalry in December of 1890, they were massacred at Wounded Knee, South Dakota. Thus ended the Ghost Dance Movement. But not the spirit of the Ghost Dance or the determination to live again.

You can kill my body,
You can damn my soul,
You don't stand a chance against my prayer,
You don't stand a chance against my love....
We shall live again,
We shall live again.

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In this video of Robbie Robertson's song "Ghost Dance", we see some of the history - along with some of the hope of the future: young shawl and fancy dancers. My youngest son (the sailor whom I call Popeye in these blog-posts) is a fancy dancer. The dance came to him also in vision, in prayer, in hope. My other son also knows well the determination to live again, to rise above the Death-Wishers. We are not a dead people. We live, and we shall live again!

Ometeotl.
Muchas gracias Tlakaelel for helping plant my dangling roots back into the red earth.

Michigan Spring Renewal

Yesterday at my home, it looked like this:



... and today it looks like this:



FLEXIBILITY!
I was always taught by the elders who knew, the folks who were elders, not just old folk, that flexibility is the #1 skill for aging successfully, for livin' on an insecure planet. Michigan spring gives one opportunity for that. Don't get too stuck, 'cuz life will come along to unstick you. Sometimes it's two steps forward, one step back; sometimes it's two steps forward, a hundred back; sometimes it's an unexpected leap forward. It all takes a certain flexibility - not holding on to what was, yesterday.

One week ago, I was busted. Not by the law, I'm talkin' in my soul. Bad health challenges keeping me down with pain and hurt; bank account slippin' down lower and lower; hole of debt gaping larger; discouraged from shoveling the mountain of social security disability process/cruelty machine for the past two years; and then as we laid our heads down in bed to listen to the thunder of the first spring thunderstorm, through the thunder we heard: drip-drip-drip as the water broke through the old tired roof. Talk about your low moments. After a half day of allowing the luxury of wallowing, it's either let yourself go down or get to working, which in my metaphorical world means get the shovel out; call on the folks who remind you that you're not a worthless piece of shit running down the gutter with the spring rain into the sewer. Get to work.

And be flexible.

Remember who you are, what you're made of, who's got your back.

Three days later....

In the early morning of April Fool's Day, a special day for all clowns, sacred or otherwise, such as el poquito - the Social Security Easter Bunny dropped chocolate eggs into my basket, i.e. all the hard work of enduring a cruel, cruel process and not giving up or dying from frustration, fear or worthlessness - outlasting them and their 500 flaming hoops - shoveling endlessly till finally I can claim the money that i have put into their insurance program all my working years, just in case, someday, I might find myself living with disability and just might need some insurance to survive; it finally paid off. Did you hear the sigh of relief over your way? Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh........ The sound of financial relief.

And if that wasn't enough...

Three hours later at my door arrives my eldest son - "The Lowrider" with five other young men, bundles of shingles, tools and equipment and all their strong hard labor for free. That's how these young men roll. Now, if you saw them on the street, you might, like some others, judge them on appearance, cross the road, maybe even be a bit afraid. Why, you ask. Simple. It's called prejudice, or pre-judging - big, strong, slightly rough guys -with hearts of gold. So there they are, six men throwing a new roof on my house, donating their beautiful sunshiney day to the parents of one of their own, and by early afternoon the job is done, they're eating pizza and I'm lavishing praise and gratitude for what they've done and for who they are.

They're the ones who give me hope. They're the living demonstration that sometimes being challenged under the weight of trouble can be endured when people band together, give the best of themselves with no strings attached, out of pure love. They restore and give me hope.

They remind me to keep it flexible, not just because I might need to brace myself for the storm, but also so I can be open to receiving the gifts of so many good things, good will, good intention. And when I thanked Lowrider for him and his friends he simply said, "Dad, you know we wouldn't let you go down." And they mean it.

Sometimes it's the elders teaching the young, sometimes it's the young teaching us.

Flexibility. Don't ever lose it. Practice it. Remember it. You remind me and I'll remind you.

in the spirit of love and renewal,
gratefully,
el poquito

Free Money (a re-do)

For Gerta and Neese, a little Patti from when we all were young and raisin' other people's children (oh, so arrogant and without tread on the road), raisin' 'em up on Patti and the Ramones; Children's Community Center and all its crazy inheritance - from the Weather Underground folks to the Rainbow People's Party folk to Sherry and Neal-Neal Banana Peel and down to us. All those baby-childs that we raised up on Patti are 35-40 years old now! Yowza! Where are they now?! What a place! What a time! A moment of history. And we were there. Love ya still.

The Gift

My Father came to me --
visited me in the early morning.
He appeared as a young man,
hair: black and full,
face: clean-shaven,
a big smile, a hearty laugh.

There was joy in his voice;
an aliveness I'd never seen before
in life.

Arriving now, from the Land of the Dead,
he stood before me
with a young man's
heart,
vital and fresh as a new day.
He was happy to see me -
happier than I ever remember
seeing him before.
He brought gifts.
But more than that,
he brought himself - fully;
showing up in Death
unlike he ever had in Life,
as if to say:
it was all
an act:

a performance
of violence and rage,
of neglect and lack;
forcing me, his son,
to dig
deep -
and then
deeper,
and then
deeper
still -

to find
the man
I would become one day,
honoring my family,
my children,
my wife.

It was as if he said,
"All that before?
It was only to get you to
here -
to the Love."

He handed me a gift
and added,
"This is for you."

How Do We Forgive Our Fathers?

Father, I barely knew you. And when I knew you, you frightened me. Mostly you showed me what not to do, what not to be. With your reign of terror, the fever of alcohol and violence that held our home and family hostage, you taught me. You taught me how to destroy spirits and lives including your own. You shone a light on the path not to walk.

Thank you.

A good buddy and I have recently been talking about raising our boys and the path to manhood; a path not necessarily walked with tremendous consciousness, but a path every single boy must find his way upon. With or without guidance, every young boy will one day wake up and find himself a man. With or without consciousness, we will each of us find ourselves trying to 'be a man'; trying to discover what that means. We fumble our way, sometimes never knowing that 'being a man' is nothing more than fully becoming a human being - a human being who is flawed, who knows love as well as fear; who knows both courage and weakness; who is vulnerable and yet strong - a being, fully human in all its shades, nuances and inconsistencies. A man.

Raising a child is one of the most valuable and basic ways to affirm life, to leave this earthly place a little bit better - or not. Almost anyone can reproduce. Big deal. Not everyone takes the job seriously. Not everyone cares about the fine art of growing a human being. After all, human beings are almost a dime a dozen, what with 6, soon to be 7 BILLION of us on the planet. It's easy to forget. It's all too easy to forget that each one is precious. We too often are imprinted with the opposite message - that we are disposable. Disposable humans fill the landscapes of wars and prisons, mental hospitals and the streets, third world shantytowns and middle american families. We treat others as disposable when we ourselves have been treated as disposable and have come to believe it as truth and fact. We've unquestioningly been bought and sold - all too easily tossed aside and discounted. Just turn on the TV. There's hundreds of messages telling us we're not good enough, and if we just purchase the next latest thing, the new and improved thing that we lack, THEN we will be someone, something, a person of worth that can be measured by a material yardstick; someone worth more than the 'disposables'.

It has nothing to do with being a good human being.

Our fathers are supposed to be one of our strongest signposts along the way. Sometimes a sign points the way. Sometimes it warns "Do Not Enter".

I am fortunate. Before my father died in his eighties I was able to have an honest talk with him. I told him how the violence I'd grown up with had damaged me. I wanted him to know before he died, before we no longer had a chance to sit down together face to face, how his actions had hurt me as a child. I also told him that now, as a man, I could forgive him, knowing that he himself had never been shown better, knowing that he also must have had great pain and hurt shown to him. Others in my family were alarmed that I would speak so frankly about things that there was an unspoken family agreement that such things should remain in the shadows of silence. Somehow it was believed that if we didn't speak about these things, then the pain would touch us less. Instead, I spoke. And my father spoke in return.

He was an old man getting ready to die. He had a conscience to clear. He apologized. With total sincerity he told me, had he known any better he would have done better - simple as that. And a lifetime of pain and hurt was washed away. He was free to move on and so was I.

Years later I saw the movie "Smoke Signals", a favorite movie of mine written by Sherman Alexie. It's about fathers and sons, pain and the convoluted yet simple path to forgiveness and redemption. It's a movie about becoming a human being - a man in all his flesh and spirit. The movie ends with this poem by Dick Lourie, as Victor, the main character, tosses his father's ashes into the river. it's a powerful scene, a powerful moment in the journey to becoming a man.

Spring Equinox Meanderings

Happy, blessed Spring! We made it – and none too soon! Those of you who are from these parts of Michigan know what I mean. You others who winter over in an easier part of the world, I’ll just put it this way: we’ve survived the long, grey, hard winter with little light and little warmth once again. Today, on the equinox, the length of the day equals the night, and from here, the balance tips; the days lengthen, the light increases. Hopefully, in our lives also. The light-starved and depressed need the wheel to turn.

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It was midsummer last year when el poquito made his first appearance. He was born out of frustration and limitation back then. He’s been clowning with me ever since. It was a low tide moment; my legs and back were pulled out from under me once again. The pain in the nerves was hard to live with. I was scared. The little bit of ground I had recovered since lymphoma had moved into my life, felt as though it were crumbling out from under me. I was in a lot of pain and with little mobility. I was chained to the couch, needing crutches to travel off of it. I was going to need something extra to get through this; el poquito began to run through the interior lands inside of me. If I can’t run in one realm – a part of me will in another.

A spark was awakened with the arrival of el poquito. He leads my way; takes my spirit by the hand and runs with me. el poquito also shields me in the very public forum of blogworld, protecting my identity, my family and any innocent bystanders. There are some of you who know who the man is ‘behind the curtain’. That man has temporarily disappeared once again, gone into retreat of sorts. It’s time for an explanation, as best as I can.

A couple of months ago, the leg and back had another one of their ‘episodes’. That means a flare-up of the same ol’ pain and limitation scenario. These usually take a couple of weeks to move through, where I become my sole bodywork client, working on my body most waking hours to free it up. I fall down, but I don’t stay down. I’m stubborn and willful, if nothing else. During this period of slippage and taking care of myself, I developed another body problem – a new one. This time my upper back and right arm were crapping out on me. My strong arms had never betrayed me before. Now, I seemed to be developing new nerve problems – in new body parts; and the hole of limitation deepened. For two months now I’ve been trying to wrap my brain around losing the use of my arm. The pain, numbness and weakness have rattled me. Of course I work on it a lot. I also have gotten a lot of help. The impact of various remedies has been minimal and any progress or improvement has had to be what I can muster in my own mind. Don’t worry. I haven’t given up. I don’t do that. I can’t afford that luxury.

I’ve tried my best to keep my arm strong; at the same time I grieve its loss. Most recently I’ve come to think of how we identify so with our work. Especially when one loves their work, and others give you lots of kudos about your work, it becomes a large part of your persona and your place in the world. And mine was a good place in the world. In my recovery from cancer I’ve erratically tried to maintain what I could in the area of my life’s work with my hands, still helping others here and there, where I could. I haven’t been this strongly challenged since being in the midst of cancer and treatment. It takes me places I’d rather not visit. But then, nobody asked me.

Working with my hands with other’s pain was a calling. I now realize that I was given a gift. My hands and being were given an ability – I was able to sculpt human flesh; softening cold, hard clay into something warm and pliable. I was given a gift to share with others, and in addition I was given the gift of being able to make a living doing that work. I’ve been fortunate.

My life has also been rich with irony.

As a gift is freely given, likewise it can it be taken away. For now, it has been taken away. I don’t know what tomorrow brings, but I do know the arm has weakened and muscle has been lost along with ability. I hope not permanently, but still, it will take some time to recover and find its way back.

Meanwhile, as the back and arm heal, el poquito takes the lead. As el poquito I can run, leap and climb mountains; I can write, paint and spin tales of survival. I can take crap and reshape it into something new. I can grow spring flowers in the compost of the winter’s pile of shit.

Or like any good gardener, I can at least try. That’s all any gardener can do – try. No guarantee how the garden will turn out. Gardening is an act of hope. So is stubbornly rising above the crap.

Viva el poquito!

And Happy Spring Equinox - celebrating the returning Light.

love,
el poquito (and the man behind the curtain)

Anticipating Spring in Michigan

the breeze is painted
with a remembered canopy
of honeysuckle and lilac -
a sistene chapel invisible to the eye
known only by its delicate breath
whispering its name

Songbird

Stuck.
A frightening place.
A terrifying place, to me.
A place of no hope,
no spark, no breath -
just stale air,
a cabin closed
for too long, all summer -
that 'hot, August, steal the air from your lungs'
kind of stale air that
has not passed over
a living thing.

That is the odor of stuck:
stale, without breath, without
the touch of any living thing.

Passivity suffers
upon itself.
It empties its pockets, turns them
inside out,
and waits.
Endlessly.

Outside this place,
the birds are praising.
Praising no one,
no thing.
Just praising.

Perspective - Down Here Below

But life goes on down here below
And all us mortals struggle so
We laugh and cry
And live and die
That`s how it goes
For all we know
Down here below

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for more on pale male: www.palemale.com/

Hanblechya

I wait for a sign:
a movement, a rustle - a stirring in the air;
a bird's call in the distance,
a cry for a vision.

I wait for a sign:
a word spoken, a dream remembered,
a conversation overheard -
one about freedom:
about the jail doors flinging open
and the prisoners set free;
about the hospital beds emptied,
and the patients all healed;
about hunger ending tomorrow
because we decide it so.

A dream about freedom
is only that: a dream.
A leap into the Unknown
is always that: a leap.

Standing at cliff's edge,
wings ready to take flight,
I wait for a sign -
the right cross wind
to climb
to the top
and
soar.

Invisible Mystery
stronger than fear,
I leap into
your current
carried on thin air
and trust.
"Do not look back
or give harbor
to doubt."

La Acequia

How do I call the rain?
How do I tell the sky
in a way it will hear 
of our need for water 
for mercy.

The dry river-bed
cracked and fissured
aches in its longing;
stream-beds lie empty;
las acequias dry 

without life-blood
filled instead with brittle memories
of what was once
green and lush.

There are milpas waiting:
verdant fields wanting
to rise above the 

withered husks

again.

I plant this seed
into the hardened earth
with a prayer
a song 
and a dream 

of the rain's return.

Mickey Goes to Pow Wow

This one takes me back to a pow wow in St. Ignace, Michigan where I first heard it; a sunny, warm September day a dozen years ago; standing next to the drum under the cedar arbor; surrounded by the blue waters of the Straits of Mackinaw - Ojibwa country. If you've never been to a pow wow, get yerself there. If you've never stood next to the drum and felt it pound its rhythm into your body - go stand next to it. If you've never seen an Indian child dance, you've missed a chance to smile deep.

Go. Eat good food. See good sights. Feel good music. Dance. Everyone is welcome. Step into another world; a world of tradition that is still strong today. You'll be glad you did. In fact, how did you ever get to be this old and never have gone to a pow wow? Go! Get yerself there. Take the kids. Take Grandma and Grandpa. There's room and respect for everyone. Have fun -- tell 'em Indigenous Mickey sent ya. (listen closely - One of the Best Cultural Appropriations in reverse)



for more info on pow wows: www.powwows.com

Late Winter Ice-break

Last week was the cross-quarter - the halfway through winter moment; the light increasing; the snow and ice melting. Ice flows breaking apart carrying ice fishermen into Lake Erie, reminding them of their very small stature. Spring surges beneath the surface. The pressure pushing, breaking apart the old, the frozen; breaking free.

Y'all hung in there with me through this last three part poem: the dictionary. It's a hard poem about hard work among other things. It's not comfortable. The pressure builds.

And then the sap rises. The ice cracks. The waters get troubled. And the release begins.

Here's a little something to soothe the way:
Eva Cassidy - Wade In the Water
Striped icebergs of Antarctica

the dictionary: malignant; malevolent

malignant - showing great malevolence; actively evil in nature

malevolent - having or exhibiting ill will
from the latin
malus - bad
and volens - to will or intend.

an evil force outside of myself
evil invaders who break into my home
tie me up
make me helpless
as I watch them rape my wife and kill her
slit the throats of my children
steal my belongings
torture me
in my powerlessness
to this great ill will
that leaves me to burn
in the rubble
of what once was my home
until all that remains
is
smoldering
ash.

i do not know this malevolent force
that wishes my undoing
it is an inheritance from
the rapists murderers and pillagers.
they want me to believe.
they need me to believe.

instead i have a wolf
same as francis' wolf of gubbio.

when the villagers of gubbio cried out for help
the holy man
came to the rescue
but instead of driving the wolf away
that had murdered and eaten children
and hunters alike
that had struck fear into all the villagers -
he went into the forest to talk to the wolf
and the villagers cried out
"oh no! don't do that! he'll kill you!"
but francis walked into the dark woods
unarmed except for invisible protection
and when he found the dangerous matted stinking wolf
he reached out his hand and said
"bless you brother wolf"
and having only been cursed before and never been blessed
and having never been called "brother" before
the wolf stopped to listen
and francis continued
in intimate conversation.

from the darkened woods they emerged together
walking toward the city gate
and the villagers screamed to kill the wolf
to hang him as was the custom
but francis said, "no."

"good people of gubbio" he addressed them
"this is your wolf."
"what? this isn't our wolf! he's not ours! he needs to be killed!" they protested.
francis countered "he is your wolf - and he has been very hungry
he has agreed to stop killing you to fill his hunger
but you must agree to feed him
and keep him from starvation
this is your wolf people of gubbio
and you must feed him."

from that day on
the skinny hungry wolf
would travel each morning from house to house
looking for scraps left by the door
by the woman of the house.

and there was no more killing.

i live with a wolf.
he's not a malevolent force
that wishes me evil.
he hungers for my attention
i do not know why
but every day he shows up
at my door
hungry
wanting
and i choose to invite him in
for something to eat
a cup of coffee
or green tea
and conversation
and listening
about life as a wolf
and being
so
misunderstood.