Harsh Wind
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The story of my great-grandmother Gregory, a native American, who married a white man. He died and left her with eight children to raise.
Her lost dreams resurface in the ripples of the creek.
Her eyes burn in flame-dance to rhythm of the drumbeat.
Mirrored on the water's face, buffalo graze on open plain.
Braves panther-stalk near, bows drawn with deadly aim.
Love clouded her vision, heartbeat obscured her sense.
Tall strength and laughing eyes weakened her defense.
Her man lies underground, buried the white man's way.
Yet in this foreign world, she's enchained to stay.
Regret burns a ragged scar, sorrow carries on the wind.
She craves arms to hold her or the comfort of a friend.
She honors the Great Spirit for her one strong son;
but with seven younger, her trek's hardly begun.
Her son echoes his father, Irish and Red Blood mixed;
may his iron pride avert the arrows his life inflicts.
But this brew is bitter; she sips its scalding flow
with an unnamed longing, and hunger for buffalo.
Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2014
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