A soapstone bowl
made smooth and round
with ocean colors
greens, dark browns
a short stem carved
from manzanita
straight unlike any
pipe I've seen
it took a while
to figure out
how to use it
you have to lie
flat on our back
feeling the earth
ready to dream
tobacco dreams

A Yurok man
might dream of wealth
dentalium shells
red flicker feathers
obsidian knife
white deerskin
a redwood canoe
carved carefully
with heart and lungs
to give it strength
and wives with
abalone skirts
that clinked like
water over stones
as they sway
in the dance

All this and yet
the greatest wealth
a man could dream
might be a song
that's his alone
a spirit helper
for the hunt
a vision of
the salmon chief
leading his tribe
from Klamath mouth
upriver to Weitchpek

I keep the pipe
where I can see it
above my dresser
next to a spoon
of myrtlewood
perhaps carved by
the same craftsman
and other treasures
from my past
almost an altar
these things speak
to me, remind me
but of what
I'm not so sure

Perhaps of how
whole worlds can rise
flourish and fade
for all their beauty
like languages
we've lost and still
are losing daily
each a human
world and each
could be a ship
that's lost at sea
with all its passengers
who now will never
come to shore

Or else it is
the simple beauty
the workmanship
these things reveal
spurring me
to hone my craft
my music and
the poetry
I struggle with
wishing to have
something that's worthy
to pass on
to those who will
be coming after
something to bring
a smile a moment
of reflection
as for me
this Yurok pipe