The Man In the Wicker Chair
Oh restful place
Weary are my eyes that watch in glory
Worn are the clay hands of my race
With lines and tales that rise upon my face
Oh restful place
With battened flattened ruby shoes
And America spirited sapphire pants
The whistling winds call the to trace
Oh restful place
I was but a warrior of my tribe
With my black and white plumage and my pride
Around my neck the jaw of 10 bears embrace
Oh restful place
A wiser man I am that has come to think
In the comforts of a rainbow painted room
I feel the desert sun has parched my breathing space
(Inspired by The Native American Ekphrasis contest
Photo found --http://joanfrederick.net/cannon.html)
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