And when we speak
let it be said
that nothing is lost
in translation.
That our words are true
and tenable.
That we understand
the meaning of “sii,”
the Ohlone word for water,
which is you.
The Ohlone knew this.
They were first of this county,
borne of seawater and
woven reeds to salt
marshes and pickleweeds
and saltwater silvered
by smelt.
They fared
on abalone
and blue elderberry.
Western chokecherry.
Periwinkle.
Oaks.
All flourishing, grace-filled,
transitory.
If I were a weaver,
I would gift you
a basket made of sandbar
willow and tule,
bright as cinnabar.
But I can only write
this poem,
a tributary,
to carry
the weight of water
as it flows and hefts
the meaning of you.
Giver and taker.
And everything that I knew.
Aileen Cassinetto 