When my hair was short, I tied black
Grasshoppers with cord and threw
Them into the water.
Black ants issued from the knotted oak
Limb that I straddled, and I
Thumped them off my legs and arms.
Whirling hands of fog gripped my feet
Then skittered over jagged ripples.
Soon I could see white morning birds
Skim among clumps of rushes,
And a heavy, bright heat glanced to
My face.
Squeals of naked, dusty children and
Squabbling puppies announced footsteps
To my mother. I brought a thong of garfish,
A bag of gray clams, and palmetto seeds.
Nibbling a seasoned clam, and with the
Smoke of oak logs still clinging to my hair,
I left her door.
After the salt traders had turned north, I sat
With my father before a dirt mound.
Great swamp owls grew silent. By evening
No eyes met mine over the fire.
Shrieks of high, dark birds struck the bark of
Huge trees...rain chilled. I bid farewell to my
Father under a low, gray sky.
When I admitted a withered oak to be a
Childhood friend, my grandsons shot geese
From windy skyways and knew the way of
Deer.
As shadows rustled, I sat by a fire and ate
Roasted acorns; my grandsons' eyes
Sleepless with an old man's words...
How great up-rooting winds chased marsh
Animals to our land, how we shared the mounds
With them-our trails vanished...
How we brought our women and dogs from
Black earth to dawn-red hills near a great river...
Under the stillness of pines, my sons saw-
Floating towards the marshes in strange
Houses-men with hands the color of morning birds.
Now as trees whisper green, our people
Become shadows on the western grass.
Winner of College Writers Society Contest. Louisiana
elysabeth faslund
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-mound-builders-of-chacahoula/
