Whānau

In the tribe, bridges aren’t burned, they are turned
into planks, into nails, into nests of a bird,
into shelters for wandering winds,
iron beams, and ropes that bend,
into all that paves the way to realms
where skies extend and fade.

In the tribe, bridges aren’t lost,
they are tossed
into hands that shape and mold,
turning dust from heaven’s hold
into towers, stairs, and stone,
rising high where stars have shone.

In the tribe, they move as one,
like a tree in rain and sun,
roots unburned, branches sway,
woven nerves that light the way,
growing, reaching, branching free,
united, pulsing like a bee,
never falling, only spun -
who was lost becomes someone.

But we still don’t understand,
the tribe’s not part, but something grand.