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Minda Moris, 1194 CRENSHAW Boulevard, Los Angeles, CA (2026)

10/15/2026

WHERE TWO SPIRITS TOUCH

Two horses gather from the midnight blue,
Their flowing manes lit softly through and through.
They bow their heads, and where their foreheads meet,
The darkness listens to a doubled beat.

Across their cheeks, the curling rivers gleam;
Each line runs deeper than the edge of dream.
Their bodies hold the wind’s unfinished flight,
Their eyes, two wells of water catching light.

No bridle breaks the brightness of their skin;
No gate encloses what they carry within.
They stand so close the space between them grows
As warm as earth beneath the winter snows.

Beyond them lies the prairie, dark and wide,
Where grasses turn like water with the tide.
The trails our families traveled cross the plain;
The rain uncovers them, then falls again.

I knew those paths beneath a smaller sky,
With someone riding always close beside.
We learned the land by how the horses slowed,
By where they drank, by what the grasses showed.

Then years drew distance through our common ground;
Our voices thinned until they lost their sound.
I carried words too sharp to take back home,
And let the silence harden as I roamed.

Tonight, these horses meet without a word.
Their breath is all the answering I have heard.
One lowers gently; one remains to stay—
And neither turns its wounded face away.

The spirals on their shoulders start to move;
Blue currents cross the dark from groove to groove.
I see two rivers, distant at their source,
Find room within one valley for their course.

Our elders’ stories stir beneath that glow:
The hands that held us, all we still can owe.
A name survives because a voice makes room;
A seed wakes slowly in the deepest gloom.

I reach toward them. Their light falls on my hand,
Like moonlit water running over sand.
The words I thought had vanished rise anew:
“I kept our stories. Did you keep them too?”

At dawn, I take the road I left behind,
With fewer answers, and a gentler mind.
Two horses linger where the shadows part—
Their foreheads touching, quiet as a heart.

✍️Painter and Author: Minda Moris
🛒 Explore the details of this artwork here 👉

10/15/2026

THE BISON MADE OF MEMORY

He stands assembled out of scattered lands,
Of folded maps and patient, shaping hands.
His horns lift pale against an empty sky;
A thousand roads lie quiet in his eye.

Across his shoulders, faded rivers wind
Through paper borders someone once defined.
Yet underneath each line, the grasses sway;
Their roots remember paths ink swept away.

His beard falls down in ribbons, dark and long,
Like fragments shaken loose from one old song.
Ochre and ivory, charcoal, muted gold—
Each torn edge touches something it can hold.

At dusk, the paper trembles into breath.
A hoof moves softly through the dust beneath.
The room falls back; the walls dissolve in rain,
And thunder gathers on an open plain.

I hear the herd before its shadows rise:
The earth’s deep pulse beneath the widening skies.
Their moving bodies darken ridge and stream;
The grasses bend and silver in the dream.

Among that sound, familiar voices come—
Our elders speaking in the warmth of home.
They name the places maps have covered over;
Their words take root among the flowering clover.

The bison turns. Along his patterned hide,
A narrow tear begins to open wide.
Beyond it shines a country without end,
Where broken trails reach out and meet again.

I touch the seam. Beneath my fingertips,
The paper warms; a grain of darkness slips.
I think of stories carried far apart,
Still finding one another in the heart.

No single scrap can make his shoulders whole;
Each gives its grain, its weather, and its fold.
Together, they bear up his heavy head—
A living shape from pieces left for dead.

Then morning lays its light across the floor.
The bison stands as paper once once more.
But in his eye, the distant grasses gleam,
And dust still holds the hoofprints of the dream.

I gather what my hands can keep and mend:
A name, a story, something to defend.
Outside, the wind moves low across the land;
Inside, his many pieces rise and stand.

✍️Painter and Author: Minda Moris
🛒 Explore the details of this artwork here 👉

10/14/2026

THE TURTLE BETWEEN TWO SKIES

Across the dark, a turtle slowly swims,
With constellations trembling near her limbs.
Upon her shell, two distant heavens meet:
The sun’s fierce breath, the moon’s unhurried beat.

One side holds forests steeped in copper fire,
Where antlers rise beneath the daylight’s choir.
The other shelters peaks of silver snow,
Where one lone wolf calls through the blue below.

Between them runs a seam both fine and deep;
Along its edge, the waking touches sleep.
Yet every chamber joins the next in bone—
Two skies held close beneath one living home.

I dreamed her coming when our house grew still,
When evening laid its shadows on the sill.
My grandmother sat near me, winding thread;
I watched her hands and listened as she said:

“Leave room for what another heart may hold.
Some need the flame; some need the quiet cold.
A life grows wide through all it learns to bear;
Be slow enough to notice what is there.”

Now in the dream, I reached toward the sun,
Believing all my darkness could be done.
But in that blaze, the forest blurred from sight;
I could not see the roots for all the light.

I turned toward snow and sought a place to rest,
To lay my burning sorrow in its breast.
The wolf looked up; its cry crossed ridge and stone,
And in that sound, I heard how far I’d grown

From those whose voices shaped my earliest days,
Whose names still warmed the words of thanks and praise.
I spoke them softly into either sky;
The deer stood listening, and the wolf drew nigh.

The turtle moved. Along her patterned back,
Small stars appeared within each hairline crack.
The mountains caught a trace of amber glow;
A moonlit breeze passed through the woods below.

Then neither world seemed distant from my own:
The warmth I gave, the grief I’d carried home.
Both had their place beneath that ancient curve;
Both asked for care my hands could learn to serve.

At dawn, I woke and opened up the door.
The moon hung pale; the sun warmed up the floor.
I stood between their lights and breathed the air—
One living heart, with room for both to share.

✍️Painter and Author: Minda Moris
🛒 Explore the details of this artwork here 👉

10/14/2026

THE RIVER INSIDE THE BEAR

He sat where winter gathered into blue,
His dark fur warmed by light the mountains threw.
Between his shoulders, far beyond the snow,
A hidden sun set all his heart aglow.

Within his breast, a winding river ran
Through lands untouched by any fence or span.
It slipped past roots and stones in silver streams,
Then deepened into pools as dark as dreams.

I stood before him, weary from the road,
With all the silent things my heart had owed:
A visit left too late, a word unsaid,
The empty chair beside my mother’s bed.

His gaze rose slowly toward the distant light;
His paws lay still, their curved claws shining white.
Yet in his body, water hurried on,
As though it knew a way beyond the dawn.

I heard the river underneath his skin
And felt a door I’d closed move deep within.
There came the sound of laughter from our home,
Of elders calling children in from snow.

Their voices crossed the water, clear and near;
I held my breath, afraid they’d disappear.
But every bend revealed another shore,
And every shore held something living more.

My mother’s hands were rinsing berries there;
The evening wind was lifting up her hair.
She turned toward me, then vanished in the spray—
The water kept the light and flowed away.

I knelt beside the bear’s unmoving feet
And listened to the current and its beat.
The snow around us glimmered, pale and thin;
The mountains held the fading sunlight in.

I could not keep the faces in that stream
Or step unchanged into its shining dream.
But I could tend the bank where waters passed,
And give their stories room enough to last.

The bear breathed out; the river caught the sun.
A thousand threads of gold became as one.
I rose to find the trail beneath the snow,
Still grieving, with a place for love to go.

At home, I washed the berries, lit the fire,
And drew the children close as flames rose higher.
Outside, the dark pressed softly on the pane;
Inside, I spoke my mother’s name again.

✍️Painter and Author: Minda Moris
🛒 Explore the details of this artwork here 👉

10/13/2026

THE EAGLE WITH A MOUNTAIN’S HEART

At first, I saw a mountain through the snow,
Its broken cliffs above the trees below.
Then through the frost, an open eye appeared—
And all the winter forest watched and heard.

An eagle rose in stone against the sky,
With snowbound firs where feathers ought to lie.
His folded wings held valleys in their seams;
His breast was dark with roots and buried streams.

No sound escaped the curve of his great beak;
Yet something stirred too deep for me to speak.
A breath of cloud moved slowly from his face,
And time grew still within that hidden place.

My grandfather had walked this ridge with me,
And paused beside a lightning-wounded tree.
He spoke the names his mother taught him here;
I said them back so each remained clear.

Now years had passed, and I had come alone,
To lay my grief against the weathered stone.
The wind undid the words I meant to say;
The eagle watched the fragments drift away.

Along his brow, the pines began to sway,
Though all the trees around stood still and gray.
Beneath his wing, a narrow passage shone—
A thread of light through centuries of stone.

I stepped inside. The air smelled green and wet;
The roots held drops the frost had not claimed yet.
Deep in the rock, I heard a steady beat,
And felt it through the soles beneath my feet.

I thought of hands that planted, mended, fed;
Of stories told beside a child’s small bed.
Their warmth had crossed the years to reach my own,
Like water finding passage through the stone.

Outside, the eagle lifted up his gaze;
The clouds grew thin with morning’s silver rays.
A loosened drift fell softly from his wing,
And somewhere under snow, I heard a spring.

I left no mark upon that mountain’s breast,
But took the names my grandfather had blessed.
And when my child asks where those names began,
We’ll walk the ridge, and speak them once again.

✍️Painter and Author: Minda Moris
🛒 Explore the details of this artwork here 👉

10/13/2026

THE MOOSE WHO HELD THE MORNING

Before the sun could find the frozen ground,
A moose stood listening where there was no sound.
His antlers opened wide against the white,
Like branches holding fragments of the night.

The snow fell softly through his crown of bone;
His amber eye held something all its own.
Within his shadow, winter forests grew,
And somewhere in his heart, the dawn broke through.

There stood another moose among the trees,
Untouched by falling snow or bitter breeze.
A smaller life within that vast, still frame—
A living ember sheltered from the flame.

I watched, and felt the distance disappear
Between the far-off light and standing here.
The forest in his breast became a place
Where time moved slowly, with my mother’s grace.

She used to mend our mittens by the door,
While melting snow ran dark across the floor.
Her mother’s words would mingle with the thread;
I learned their rhythm long before she said

That every name we carried had a home
In mouths of those who stayed and those who roamed.
Now, in the hush beneath the antlers’ span,
I spoke the words—and heard her voice again.

The moose breathed out. A cloud of silver rose;
The morning warmed the frost upon his nose.
He turned toward the light within his side,
Where narrow tracks crossed snow untouched and wide.

I saw how much a living heart could hold:
The winter woods, the young, the growing old;
The hands that raised us, absent from our sight,
Yet present in the way we tend a light.

One heavy hoof sank gently through the snow;
The hidden moose began, as well, to go.
Their movements met across the golden air—
Two lives, one path, and room for others there.

By noon, fresh snowfall filled the tracks behind;
I kept their quiet passage in my mind.
And home, beside my child, I drew him near
To teach the words I thought I’d never hear.

✍️Painter and Author: Minda Moris
🛒 Explore the details of this artwork here 👉

10/12/2026

THE OTTER WHO CARRIED DAWN

Beneath the moon, where snowbound cedars lean,
An otter watches from the space between
The world we touch and what we only know
When dreams move softly underneath the snow.

His whiskers catch the silver of the night;
His amber eyes hold pools of hidden light.
Along his brow, the rippling shadows flow
Like rivers seeking valleys far below.

I reach the bank where winter seals the stream,
And find him waiting, quieter than a dream.
Behind his shape, the darkened firs unfold;
Within his breast, the sky is burning gold.

My grandmother once brought me to this shore
To hear the water moving under frost.
She taught me names I scarcely speak anymore;
I kneel to hear the sounds I thought were lost.

The river answers slowly through the ice,
A murmured word, then silence, whispered twice.
The otter lifts his head as though he hears
A voice that traveled here across the years.

I came with sorrow folded in my coat,
With words that would not loosen in my throat.
He slips beneath the ice; the waters gleam,
And darkness opens gently in the stream.

Then bubbles rise like beads of scattered glass;
A silver movement lets the moonlight pass.
He surfaces, and shakes the night away—
A small, wild joy before the break of day.

The golden forest kindles in his chest;
The snowy branches stir from winter’s rest.
I breathe, and feel the frozen silence thin;
Some long-forgotten warmth returns within.

When morning finds me standing on the shore,
His tracks descend to water, nothing more.
Yet where the current bends beyond my sight,
A thread of gold keeps moving through the white.

✍️Painter and Author: Minda Moris
🛒 Explore the details of this artwork here 👉

10/12/2026

THE FOREST BENEATH HIS SKIN

Within the bear, the shadowed cedars rise,
And winter gathers softly in his eyes.
His fur holds twilight, silver, deep, and blue;
His breath reveals the paths the snowfall knew.

He stands where human footsteps fade away,
Beyond the reach of roads, beyond the day.
Yet in his gaze, a quiet warmth remains—
Like embers sheltered through the longest rains.

The forest rests beneath his mighty frame;
Each root remembers someone’s spoken name.
The elders’ footsteps soften into moss,
But still the earth holds what we fear to lose.

Below his heart, a woven circle gleams,
Its threads suspended at the edge of dreams.
Five feathers tremble in the evening air,
As though an unseen hand were resting there.

I watch the spaces woven through the thread;
They frame the living branches overhead.
What seemed an empty place becomes a door,
And something in me listens as before.

I hear my grandmother beside the flame,
The gentle way she used to speak my name.
Her chair is gone; her voice has long been still—
Yet here it moves like water down the hill.

The bear turns slowly toward the darkened trees;
A thousand needles whisper in the breeze.
He takes no grief away, but lets me see
How roots hold fast beneath a wounded tree.

At dawn, his shadow disappears from sight;
The feathers catch the first returning light.
I leave with earth still warm beneath my palm—
And carry home the forest’s patient calm.

✍️Painter and Author: Minda Moris
🛒 Explore the details of this artwork here 👉

10/11/2026

THE OTTER AT THE EDGE OF HEAVEN

Upon a drifting island made of snow,
An otter stood beneath the northern lights.
Green ribbons crossed the silent stars below
The purple depths of winter’s longest nights.

His whiskers caught the frost, his small paws curled;
Behind him, mountains held their breath in white.
He seemed too small to bear so vast a world,
Yet lifted up his face toward all that light.

Along the shore, a Native mother stood,
Her daughter tucked against her weathered sleeve.
They watched the water darken where it could,
And neither asked the other when to leave.

The child had brought a question to the sea:
“Where does the love go when a life is done?”
Her mother held her closer at the knee;
Above the peaks, the lights began to run.

The otter turned. His eyes reflected green.
A ripple touched the ice without a sound.
Then, in the water’s shifting silver sheen,
A face appeared where only stars were found.

The mother knew that smile, that tilted head—
Her father listening, patient as before.
She reached toward words she thought she’d never said;
The tide rose softly, breathing on the shore.

The child saw only colors on the foam,
A little creature waiting on the ice.
But felt her mother’s fingers warm her own,
And watched a falling star divide the night.

The otter slipped beneath the darkened tide.
His island rocked; the shining waters stirred.
A trail of emerald opened, long and wide,
Like music reaching them without a word.

They stayed until the sky grew pale with dawn,
Until the mountains took their earthly shape.
The face had faded, and the lights were gone;
Small waves laid beads of water on their capes.

At home, the daughter drew the otter’s eyes,
Then filled the page with ribbons, blue and green.
Her mother placed it where the morning lies—
Beside the photograph of whom she’d seen.

✍️Painter and Author: Minda Moris
🛒 Explore the details of this artwork here 👉
https://nativerootsapparel86.com/m5278

10/11/2026

THE WOLF STITCHED FROM STARS

She laid the silver beads beside the flame,
And threaded darkness through a needle’s eye.
Beyond the glass, a distant calling came—
A wolf beneath the vast and wintered sky.

Her grandmother had taught her how to sew,
To leave each shining bead enough to rest.
“Your hands will learn what hurried eyes don’t know.”
She held those words as close as breath and chest.

Now, in her Native home, the room was still;
The older hands no longer guided hers.
Outside, the moon rose slowly past the hill,
And wind moved like a footstep through the firs.

She shaped the lifted muzzle, dark and bright,
The watchful eye, the open mouth of song.
A thousand beads caught fragments of the light;
Beneath her thumb, the silver rows grew long.

Then midnight entered softly through the door.
The scattered stones shone brighter where they lay.
A shadow crossed the empty wooden floor,
Though nothing passed before the lamp that way.

The needle paused. The wolf began to breathe.
Its beaded throat moved gently in her hand.
She felt a heartbeat stirring underneath,
And heard a howl roll out across the land.

Within that sound were voices she had known:
Her mother laughing, children calling home,
Her grandmother’s low humming, stitch by stitch—
A melody no distance could unsew.

She wept, and one tear touched the silver face.
The wolf looked upward, holding her grief there.
Its song rose through the rafters into space,
Then softened to a whisper in the air.

By dawn, it lay unmoving on her knee,
Each bead a bead, each thread securely drawn.
Yet through the window, just beyond the tree,
A living wolf stood watching in the dawn.

She opened up the door and let light in.
The wolf slipped quietly between the pines.
That evening, when her daughter came to sit,
She placed the waiting needle in her hand.

✍️Painter and Author: Minda Moris
🛒 Explore the details of this artwork here 👉
https://nativerootsapparel86.com/m538

Minda Moris

10/15/2026

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