Who kills my history knows
it is buried
in the same air ay breathe.
Only a hair is needed to keep you, mother.
Only a fit of bone.
Comfort, comfort, ay am my own.

Wanting simple, a sun like water, a flow and stir of air.
Warm stone, black-warm, dirt scent and bird.
Ay am put out to weather.

Animal eyed me here — heaving, breathing over —
felt by smell for me and loomed.
Air shifted my hair as it neared and sniffed
then left. Comfort, comfort me.

A thresh of sticks and vine, hand-carried
high — ay am my own weight carried by,
kind horse, kind mother, gone.