A piece of her past
conjured up in the haze
of the burning sage;
The haunting sounds
of the wolf, the owl, the
flute
the tune on the wind in
the recording.
I watched her eyes,
her features soften,
transformed into
connected to
a long dead ancestor.
An Indian of these shores,
high cheekbones, noble race,
one of her strands, the
threads
of her history, not a
constant in
her mind; but there to see
it
as she sat at the table,
transfixed
by the curls of smoke,
rising
toward the ceiling.
Being one with the spirits,
the energy of her native
past;
Calling her with smell and
sound,
grounding her in the wisdom,
the truth in this earth.
=========
edited May 23, 2015
Her Heritage – v2
September 27, 2006 16:49
Her Heritage
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poems are copyrighted by Raymond A. Foss, 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005,
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reserved. Contact me at Ray Foss for usage.
See all 37,710+ of my poems at www.raymondafoss.blogspot.com
Poetry Where You Live.
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