The summer sun has fled to warmer climes
before the dauntless lance of winter.
Warmth and Life have folded up their clothes
and taken down the tipi called 'they live there'.
They've left behind the dross of living things -
the smell of open fires and the garbage pit.
I will hide my heart below the dying embers
that warm the ground beneath the fire ring.
I will search among the ashes of the camp
to find kinnikinic to give to you, my death.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.