You’re my relative,

There’s an ancient connection

between me and you…

You’re a matriarch,

And we are born from a womb.

This soil, this land,

is our relative too.

Never once have you proclaimed,

“This is what I own,”

“This is what you owe.”

Instead, you carry a mountain on your back,

guiding us to the mountains we call home.

And as you tend to all the places you roam,

Your tracks lead the way

Behold all the knowledge,

The ceremonies where we pray.

Relative, I see you.

And as I recognize

your heart-shaped eyes,

I feel less alone.

I bear witness to you

looking back at your creation in awe

When she frolics beside you, as if saying,

“Look at me, Mom!”

You show her how to walk…

Could you show me too?

How to face storms, and stay strong

after grieving all those who’ve gone?

To hold dignity

while offering every part,

And to give all of your heart.

Ode to you, in honor songs.

With gratitude, I sing a prayer tune.

Because you see,

We still have much to learn from you.

We call you by many names

From Buffalo, to Tatanka,

in my people’s language:

Iyanee’.

I call you my relative, a sage of the plains.

For together, we are woven through roots

Where all that is sacred remains.