sôhkikâpawi, nitôtêm ~ Stand Strong, My Friend

You said, “Stand in your own truth,”

and now that’s where you’re standing:

on your own patch of truth.

nîpawi kitâpwêwinihk

Truth is firm enough to support

a straight tall tree. Straight

as a tamarack on a cold

north hill. True as those needles

a gold blaze splashing

from horizon to horizon

in late September.

kwayaskokâpawi tâpiskôc ana wâkinâkan

Truth secures unsheltered tamaracks

flagging eastward from a mean

northwesterly, ready

for the possibilities of dawn

on a frigid winter night. Truth

harbours hope, a fugitive in frost

on rough bark, as steady ground

embraces heavy snow — a haven for shed needles.

wîci-kâpawîstâtok anohc tâpiskôc aniki wâkinâkanak

Fatigued but fearless in ferocious

determination to defy deceit,

you stand sustained by truth,

even when corruption in a suit

and tie, or cowardice decked out

in denims and sneakers, hides

poised to strike.

sôhkikâpawi êkospîhk nimiyo-tôtêm

Sometimes truth is a patch of land

big enough for only one to stand;

other times it might offer space

enough to pitch your tent.

pêyakokâpawi kîspin êkosi ispayiki, mâka wîci-kâpawîstawik mîna kotakak.

Truth, unyielding terrain, underlies the first

declarations of spring:

new growth of the crocus

emerging tender and rubbery

as a baby’s first cry.

ômisi isikâpawi tâpiskôc kâ-isi-sâkâkonêkâpawit apiscâpakwanîs.

A trail worn confidently

by courage, truth tracks sure as the first

spring raindrops refracting green

aroma after a monotone winter.

Rain that sharpens the earthy

tang of moist soil. Rain

that colours the pungent green

for those tuned into the truth

of a walk in the boreal forest.

kinokâpawi ayisk kisôhkisin.

Black clean dirt under red

osier dogwood, truth is kinikinik.

Tobacco offered to an elder.

nêhiyaw cistêmâw

“Stand in your own truth,” you said.

And it seems to me that truth

lies solid beneath the sharp

clear call of sandhill cranes

needling northward, audible

only to those who listen

with an ear bent toward certainty.

natohta tâpwêwin, nitôtêm.

Truth bears ripe raspberries

red off the bush, or the near-black

purple of chokecherries in late July.

A small patch of earth, the sweet

anticipation of saskatoon pie,

promises emerging from truth.

kiyâmikâpawi êkwa cîhkîsta ôhi asotamâkêwina.

Truth is the sixth sense

of survival, primeval, prickly perhaps

but perfect, pure as the knowledge

that comes before uncertainty.

sôhkikâpawi nimiyo-tôtêm, Ellen.

cîpacikâpawi anita kitâpwêwinihk.