Teaching in Old Hazelton III

In this classroom
I can still see mountains

We have less in common
with the people in this room
Topped by building,
Set in concrete û girdled by steel.

I cannot feel the mountains.
Brush my hands on top
Of cedar hold tight
to alder trees.

Mumble beneath my breath
Mountainous incantations;
My breath will not depart
My body, housed soul will
Remain still.

In this place of mountains
We are strangers
No one remembers
Their mothers their grandmothers.

I do small ceremonies
In wide open spaces
Breathe second hand tobacco smoke
Send them anyway,
Drifting up to mountained heights.

Mother, grandmother
You are here; somewhere
I think of you often,
Invoking what I , little know.

Remember what you teach me;
Held up by mountains.