by Mary Lambert
The old ones whisper through us as
we witness the dissemination of all we knew.
Toward a New Age we go, alone.
Who will know we were here, that we lived, loved,
dreamed and had our days of power, like puffs of
seed, blown away by a wind we knew as friendly.
And now, stretching to reach, to gather remains
of those distant seeds--through the elders still walking,
through our young who stare with distant eyes--
never to know the glory of our tribe, the brightness
of the sun on our feathers. The shining prairie and
scudding clouds of our universe no longer resonate
to their digital beat.
The initial bond broken like a dry twig, the flame
of our power dimmed, our children will not know
each other through the ordinary tasks of those times.
Scrambled past in our quest for a better tomorrow,
not understanding the power of the plain mud trails
that held us together, we have been pushed to the
rim of the wheel, no longer central to our vision.
The tribe awaits a new formation, a different
constellation of another age, our shrouds stand
waiting to hear the sound of a clear chime in a
These old photos on crumbling pages speak the
color of their time, showing what was in snatches of
Kodak light, ill-shuttered, peasant-like, beautiful.
Europe, America, last century, homestead, depression,
war. Our own faces smile from infancy,
banal, unknowing; Glorious in Uncle Sam's Stripes
and Banners, marching, smiling, victorious capitalism.
Will the hopes and dreams of the elders be fulfilled?
Or will destruction come in the form of polluted greed . . .
What awaits us in this New Age of angels
Garden of Grasses Home Page||
Garden of Grasses Guestbook|