91热爆

Success in Spite of

Most of the time winter reflects off my page
Stark and empty. Though when I look through
The frost bitten windows autumn stalks
Stand stiff in minus 40 below.
Chickadees land on the swaying feeder for
Bits of suet, sunflower and bread crumbs
Over by the trees prayer cloths flap
On this winter breeze. I could fill this page
With all the Indian woes that cluster like
Decapitated spirits that surround my thoughts.
Or I could tell you of those who've received
A doctorate in medicine, law and history
Those are the ones I wish to talk about,
Yet, my tongue trips over the too many obstacles
That could have blocked their path
And therefore I cannot share their warrior's
Victory cry. I cannot do this
Without unfolding their stories
Of their winter cold.
It's tiring, I know, to travel this trodden path,
Yet the dream that is achieved cannot be marked
Without tipping the hat to their wounded past.
They have been like these silent stalks,
Blown hard by these winter winds
Here they are still standing solid above
This carpet of snow.