Barefeet
Indian paths unfurled
wrapping round earth's slow evolution.
The rock pressed by glacial weight.
The tree planted by squirrel whim.
Skirting
skittering, scampering
a narrow channel.
Not like our roads now,
although some once
were Indian paths
made straight and wide and smooth
by chopping trees,
uprooting rocks,
slicing into a shale hillside.
A pipe swallows a stream,
rather than have me leap
rock by rock across
each slippery, jiggly stone.
1997 National Fed. Of State Poetry Soc.: 4th Honorable Mention in the 38th annual Our Native American Heritage Award
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