01/09/2026
Moon-Braid Prayer
She faces the pale moon—
not to ask for power,
but to remember where power comes from:
breath, patience, and the long road home.
Her beadwork holds the night in place,
each small circle a quiet “thank you,”
each feather a promise
to move gently through what is alive.
Wind writes spirals across the sky,
the old kind of writing—
the kind you feel in your ribs
before you understand it in words.
Mountains listen without interrupting.
Valleys keep the stories warm.
And her hair, dark river of midnight,
carries the song of many generations.
Flowers rise at her shoulder like soft witnesses,
roots speaking to roots—
a teaching passed hand to hand:
we belong to the land,
and the land belongs to no one.
Down near her heart a woven circle turns,
catching only what is kind—
letting fear fall through
like dust from a traveling road.
So she stands in the purple hush,
wrapped in sky and earth together,
and offers one simple prayer:
May my steps be beautiful,
and may my spirit stay in balance
with all my relations.
