Raymond A. Foss Poems

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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, transform into
a long dead ancestor,
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 the earth

September 27, 2006 16:49

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