For Grandpa Kangi Iyutaka, Homer Whirlwind Soldier, Sr.
memory has its own language
in frost-laced prairie grasses
in the mist that lifts from
each hollow shadow
in the rhythm of the wind
in the clouds stretched
across the width of the horizon
the tone of his voice changes
hurling through time
secretly mourning
we strain to hear
I see it all with fresh eyes
as he speaks
thundering hooves
mark their journey
turning into the sun
where eagles once soared
spirits of rock, tree and grass
greet those ghost-like
shaggy coats returning
ancient and enduring
they’ve found their way
black horns gleaming
in vibrant sunsets
howling wolves follow
through Buffalo Gap
through the hollow silence
they come, spilling over the plains
like cottonwood fluff
riding the wind
in the gray light of morning
Waziya departs
the nights grow shorter
and days longer
Itokaga returns
on yellow feathered wings
and sweet scent of sage
in the ebb and flow of
each season.
From: Howe, Craig; Whirlwind Soldier, Lydia; and Lee, Lanniko L. (eds.), He Sapa Woihanble: Black Hills Dream, 2011, Living Justice Press: St. Paul, Minnesota, pp. 33-34.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=IILr0aXIky0C)
Date: 2011
By: Lydia Whirlwind Soldier (1942- )