There are afternoons that quietly reorder you. This was one.
In the heart of the Segrado Gallery, a room brimming with creativity and inspiration, I found myself on a poetic journey unlike any other. The Roots Workshop had gathered accomplished poets and eager newcomers alike, and offered all of us a canvas for expression and exploration, guided by the art and character of Ernesto Burbank, a traditional Navajo ambassador and professional tattoo artist.
Ernesto's art speaks volumes. Each piece is a testament to a rich heritage and a profound gift for storytelling. His work — adorned with the faces of famous chiefs, and dedicated to loved ones lost to the pandemic — resonated deeply with everyone in the room. One piece, made for a beautiful wife who had passed on, stood as a poignant reminder of love and loss. It is a theme that belongs to no single people. It echoes in every home on earth.
As we gathered, people from all walks of life shared their stories and perspectives. From seasoned poets to those like myself, new to the craft, we found common ground in a simple, ancient desire — to express, and to connect. The atmosphere was charged with creativity, each story and poem a thread in a vibrant tapestry of shared human experience. You are not alone in a room like that. The circle holds you.
Amid it all, I picked up a pen and wrote — a poem for the cherished summers I spent riding horses from our desert farm to the trading post. Those memories are vivid and dear, and here is where they landed:
I remember it in the cottonwood leaves
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Of a place called "the cows chewed it all." It's a place where my family used to take their large herds and plant corn and crops.
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For the entire summer we would set up shop next to there. Laughter, happiness, family, water, honorable lifeways, and the summer Nidaa ceremonies.
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Of course, the cottonwood trees also found their home — not sure why the cows didn't chew them.
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I hear different stories, that they were brought by the Mormon.
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I love the shades of the Cottonwood trees, strong, old, cool. On a hot day we ride horses to the trading post, the sun hits us hard, but we know respite is coming… A small pond from the spring and close by, our relative the cottonwood trees.
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A breeze, whistling of the Cottonwood leaves, and water adds to the beautiful symphony on this day… Ahxehee Cottonwood tree for adding to the singing!
The workshop was a celebration of resilience — of the warrior twins, of strength that outlasts hard seasons. Surrounded by that art and those stories, we wrote with fervor, our words flowing as naturally as the images that inspired them. It was a day of learning and growth, where every voice was valued and every story mattered.
I keep returning to that room. What happened there is the same thing I have watched happen wherever people gather to remember who they are: something that was scattered comes back into a circle. A stranger becomes a relative. Grief becomes a poem. This is the quiet, unglamorous work of keeping a people whole — and it is the same work, whether the room sits in a desert gallery or a village hall on the other side of the world.
I ask myself the question that runs through everything I write and build: will this make our great-grandchildren whole, or hollow them out? An afternoon like this makes them whole. It hands down a cottonwood tree, a ceremony, a name, a way of singing to the water — the wealth and wisdom that no market can price and no extraction can take, if we keep it home.
As I reflect on it, I am grateful — for the chance to learn from such talented people, and to be moved by the art of Ernesto Burbank. His work, much like the workshop itself, is a testament to the power of storytelling and to the enduring spirit of the people who made him.
This day ignited something in me: a desire to keep writing, to keep sharing stories, and to keep connecting with others through the timeless art of poetry. It is the same fire I try to carry into every book and every gathering — the belief that it is not too late, that the fire is still lit, and that the one who keeps it burning is you.
I look forward to many more workshops, and to the slow, patient growth of a poetic voice. The cottonwoods are still singing. All we have to do is ride out and listen.