Selected Poems
Indian Summer
So much depends on the red picnic table
slick with rain, as we stood on one end.
In front of the silent standing nation of grass
as high as a nine year old's eye.
Into the neighbor's yard, hand in hand, we leapt.
That was the last day, when school ended,
we painted stripes on our faces with weed berries
and braided our hair. We stomp danced
flattened crop circles, listening to the pow wow tape.
Our mothers watched, two stories above.
That summer, we walked the woods
in our hand-made moccasins.
Naming every tree, by leaf and bark
every bird and animal, by look and song.
We gave each other native names.
The last time I spoke with Running Deer was six months later
on that strip of creek ice, between our houses, when I told her
and moved away. She married, changed her name
and passed away. I must have outgrown or forgot my
name until now. I am Standing Bear.
slick with rain, as we stood on one end.
In front of the silent standing nation of grass
as high as a nine year old's eye.
Into the neighbor's yard, hand in hand, we leapt.
That was the last day, when school ended,
we painted stripes on our faces with weed berries
and braided our hair. We stomp danced
flattened crop circles, listening to the pow wow tape.
Our mothers watched, two stories above.
That summer, we walked the woods
in our hand-made moccasins.
Naming every tree, by leaf and bark
every bird and animal, by look and song.
We gave each other native names.
The last time I spoke with Running Deer was six months later
on that strip of creek ice, between our houses, when I told her
and moved away. She married, changed her name
and passed away. I must have outgrown or forgot my
name until now. I am Standing Bear.
