The Sage Burner
My Grandfather was a Sage-Burner.
He would light the dry twisted grass with a Zippo.
It was chromed, silver and read; "Live to ride. Ride to Live."
The sage would spark and burst into yellow orange flame.
He would blow it out and nurse the ember to full life.
Until it glowed with an evil black and red shimmer.
It smelled like bad weed.
My Grandfather would dance and flit about the space.
His thin frame with arms uplifted as if praising some unseen God.
Blowing, poking and prodding the smoke.
Into dark corners and back rooms.
Places we forgot.
I asked my Grandfather why he burned sage.
With narrowed eyes he said, "some spirits like to hang around
and cause mischief among the Human Beings.
"We burn sage so they will leave us alone."
"We burn sage so they will go away from us and bother the Whites instead."
Then he smiled and continued his dance.
E.G. Maynard.
46 & 2.
3.
Copyright © Trace Baldwin | Year Posted 2016
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