Tuesday, January 17, 2012

Day Ninety-One: Post Card Story

Crystals grow. Along the black edges of the face-cave. Breathing pumps through the knitt wall. Blue eyes weep warm water. And underground the river flows. While the grass still grows. Even when the snow blows. Up. Up. Up. And the Son is always shining. As a young man meditates on his grandmother working a hide with her hands.

1 comment:

  1. I had mocassins made for Max by a Metis woman using a 30 year old moose hide. A gift from an Elder at Thunderchild to Bill before he moved from back south. I always wondered what he would do with that hide. He had had it for so long. Little did I know that it would be me doing something with that hide. Your poetry brings all the connections around that hide to mind.