For Oscar On His 13th Birthday
His the archer’s bow, straight his arrowhead
on foot and trail swift as the running deer,
and long his hair the eagle feathers spread
in the buckskin war bonnet he does wear.
My boy the dreamcatcher, the hunter brave
in buffalo horn and porcupine quills -
ghost of the warrior chief in the grave
whose heart lies on the plains and in the hills.
Where beats a drum and burns a campfire -
a child of the Great Spirit in the sky,
like the roebuck leaping farther, higher,
chasing a dream in the wind and the rye.
You are the Indian bark, the sacred tree,
a totem from the depth and breadth of me.
Written: March 2013
Copyright © Keith D Trestrail | Year Posted 2022
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment