I wrote this poem many years ago, when I spent much time with a American Indian friend and mentor of Choctaw, Cherokee and European heritage. I now dedicate it to his wife, who recently passed away from cancer. You are in my thoughts, Mou and GhostWolf.
Indian Winter
I softly tread the ancient path
where age old legends are laid to rest
My footsteps echo like phantoms of night,
while a dove coos, content in her nest.
I enter a clearing where a village once stood,
Where tepees stand in a tattered cast.
Clouds hover low, a spector's veil,
and mists uncover memories from ages past.
I gaze into the eyes of an ageless face.
An abyss of every emotion.
In them I read the hopes of a tribe,
and a life filled with unyielding devotion.
He speaks in a voice that is almost a whisper,
hoarse from years of wear.
He speaks low in a soothing tone,
in a passion unknown and truly rare.
"Eagle feathers, Starlit night, weathered face, silver light."
"Young squaw come. Follow the path of the ancient one.
Fear me not. Stand. Now follow the deer and run!"
"Step lightly, make no sound. The night is awake, sounds surround.
The wind speaks, learn its voice. Winter ends...now rejoice!!!"
The mist lifts and the Indian fades, but I am not alone.
"Eagle feathers, Starlit night, weathered face, silver light."
Rating: User: CircaRigeI 2007-04-01T00:21:40.39Z
Tags:
Indian | Winter |