Mite To Mound

(I've veered from the sad truth to an unrelated positive of this prompt)

Gathered steps from grand to mite
becomes your future overnight.
Borne to have, to cultivate,
sweet plantations there await.

We wave to father's trail that weaves,
among the pungent, drying leaves
Skin relations, tying links,
respect for what a woman thinks.

A whole with no hypocrisy,
a blip, a blood democracy
As evident as blazing star,
we track our loved ones from afar.

The smokey trails, the hissing streams,
the catcher feathering our dreams
Grandma's trembling hands may stealth,
to sell our goods and keep our health

Wonder Star, Returning Moon,
your day is over, none too soon.
Babes back in arms of their creator,
stars will call a little later.

Gathered round until again,
they venture on their many plains.
Alas we'll waive and watch the skies,
fill from which our lives derive.

To say goodbye in sacred mounds
Sweet Plantations, sacred grounds.