When we built the house I tried to pay attention to where the sun rose and set but I didn't fully understand the impact of the seasons. Now I have an intuitive knowledge of where the sun sets in December versus June. I remember the strength of the wind as the roof shook when we first moved into our house. I remember the motion of digging holes to plant trees and the emotions of hope and effort tangled with the tiny root balls. The growth has been slow and profound, the shade creeping into my studio, the views being crowded out by branches.
I discern language that comes from the land. I not only walk the paths around our home but also study in order to dance the dialect of winter, discern the calligraphy of branches, and copy the asemic text of locust pods. I have used the ochre dug up from planting trees. I sift the black dust of basalt that comes from our driveway gravel for glazes. I ache for the white of the moon and am relieved by the blue of the morning sky. I remember how my mother lived for the sunset. Her generous spirit colors my desire to take snapshots and write in my journal. I am evidence of my mother. And I see even more confirmation of my mother in my daughter. I recognize my father's skin in the bruises on my forearm from some project gone awry. These memories are my poems. These poems are my life, the land my muse and the stars my stories.
Remember
Remember the sky that you were born under,
know each of the star's stories.
Remember the moon, know who she is.
Remember the sun's birth at dawn, that is the
strongest point of time. Remember sundown
and the giving away to night.
Remember your birth, how your mother struggled
to give you form and breath. You are evidence of
her life, and her mother's, and hers.
Remember your father. He is your life, also.
Remember the earth whose skin you are:
red earth, black earth, yellow earth, white earth
brown earth, we are earth.
Remember the plants, trees, animal life who all have their
tribes, their families, their histories, too. Talk to them,
listen to them. They are alive poems.
Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the
origin of this universe.
Remember you are all people and all people
are you.
Remember you are this universe and this
universe is you.
Remember all is in motion, is growing, is you.
Remember language comes from this.
Remember the dance language is, that life is.
Remember.
-- Joy Harjo from She Had Some Horses, W. W. Norton & Company.
Appointed the Poet Laureate in 2019
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