Poetry Pick


Lynn Tait

When I stand on this land
I hear my ancestors cry for release
like a wolf howling for its mate.

Tree spirits shriek,
shake their leaves angrily,
"Where are you?" they ask.

The eagle still soars,
but with clouded eye.
My pony longs to run alongside the buffalo.

I see Grandfather
dancing with ghosts,
telling the young ones stories of the great hunt,

The season of the salmon runs,
rivers boiling like kettles over fire,
the grizzly that haunted the forest and his dreams.

The elders would gather,
fires warming old spirits.
Grandmothers chanting.

Yellow eyes of wild dogs
pierced the night,
searching for dark offerings.

Owls hooting,
startled wild geese feather the air
car spooks my mount,
barren plains slowly swallow the sun.

From Windfall, a CPA Anthology (Hidden Brook Press 2002)


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