Welcome To The Bullpen
I Still Smell The Smoke
By Delia J. Fry
I remember when on the mountain
The sign, large puffs of white smoke
The silent language of my ancestors
Bold, deliberate and seen for miles
The white dusty messages stretching
No longer captive under a skin or blanket
As they were released, they rushed
Lifting, rising up into the sea of sky
Floating long enough for me to read
Words in the sky that I'd been taught
A puff, a spiral curling or just a line
And others that burned from the wood
How I watched as they drifted away
Feeling it was just a conjured illusion
But knowing the truth in its creation
News, a meeting or to warn of danger
Smoke signals, a means for survival
On the "fire bowl" on the mountain top
I dug the large round dent in the earth
And helped line it with rocks and wood
Then sat as the elders tended the fire
That was years ago, and as I tell this story
I still smell the smoke in father's blanket
And see scorch marks on the animal hide
|
|
