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Page: Profile: Poetry
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Poem Specs
VxPoem ID: 13630
Category:
pagan_spirituality
Posted: June 17th. 2005 9:33:54 PM
Views: 824 |
Two Feathers
by Dragonchilde
Age Group: Adult
In the full chestnut mane of my youth, feathers.
Woven in to the thick braid running down my back, a long white feather.
Almost translucent; the details still so clear in my mind.
The little downy wisps near the beginning.
The faint tannish, but not quite there circles midway towards the top.
After the circles, the rest a not quite, barely there, tannish band.
A notch in the left side, about three inches from the tip.
The feather seems real but not quite.
I am aware of its presence and that it keeps flipping over
So that the bottom side is up.
I keep reaching back to turn it over.
I can feel its texture in my hands.
A remarkable thing, this feather that is there but isn’t.
It is as real as now, but then is not.
I want people to see it but yet I try not to be obvious about it.
I know it is special but I don’t know why.
This feather that is there but isn’t.
In my mind’s eye I see the glistening black feather,
Beaded into my hair just above and behind my right ear.
I know it is a Crow feather, not a Raven’s.
Nobody has told me this. I just know.
It is a part of who I am.
It is important, but the white, barely there feather seems to want my undivided attention.
I stand in the dirt yard of an old canteen just down the road from my grandparents home.
The light of the day giving every thing a sepia tone quality.
I realize I am dressed in aboriginal clothing.
I am barefoot again.
I am aware of the native blood that runs through my veins.
I am aware that my features exhibit my ancestry more than they ever have.
The cheek bones, the dark eyes even though mine are green in my earth life.
Everything more pronounced.
I find myself turning and in front of me stands an Elder.
There is ageless wisdom in his weathered face.
Standing there in faded denim, a soft worn shirt and a vest, much like the one I wear.
He holds out his left hand to me.
Wanting me to go with him.
Over his shoulder I see the home of my grandparents.
He speaks but no voice comes to my ears.
I feel the dirt under my feet.
The rustle of the soft deer hide of my vest.
The feel of the breeze as it plays with the feathers.
I smell the pitch of the woods on the hill behind me.
The busy noise of the river that runs it’s journey at the base of the hill.
Everything more there, except for the voice of the Elder that I cannot hear.
My Grandparent's house keeps me where I am.
I wonder where I would have gone,
Had my spirt tripping hadn't been interrupted,
And Dawn hadn't come so soon.
Author's Notes: A cosmic tap on the shoulder from my ancestors.
Author's Location: Second North River, New Brunswick
More Poems: Dragonchilde has posted 8 additional poems- View them?
Author's Profile: To learn more about Dragonchilde - Click HERE
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