There stands an ancient tree
On the reservation
My grandmother calls it, our own.
It's the biggest one, she boasts,
You can see it from every hilltop.
It'll never stop growing.
It'll never stop giving.
She loves to remind us
Of its power and beauty
She speaks as if it is part of her
she remembers When sapplings
Were sparse on the plains
And grew in patches needing each other
For shade and shelter
When life was still virtuous and new.
She beams with pride
As she recalls the generations
Through which our tree
Faught and struggled to survive.
She chuckles with joy
Describing its bright blossoms every spring.
Her soul drifts in peace
Through the safety of its mass.
But as stories
Of attempted destruction remind her
Of branches broken,
She wails with sorrow and loss
For our tree.
For our lives.
Changed forever.
There are few low branches in our ancient tree
And sap still beads where the thickest branches were torn.
We remember.
We mourn.
Now our tree is hard to climb.
The trunk is rough
The bark is scarred
And carries memories of seasons hard.
But if you can climb up far enough
To new...
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Tags:
native american, poetry.........
Posted at: 05:48 PM | Permalink