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