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Available for over a year

Success in Spite of Most of the time winter reflects off my page Stark and empty. Though when I look through The frost bitten windows autumn stalks Stand stiff in minus 40 below. Chickadees land on the swaying feeder for Bits of suet, sunflower and bread crumbs Over by the trees prayer cloths flap On this winter breeze. I could fill this page With all the Indian woes that cluster like Decapitated spirits that surround my thoughts. Or I could tell you of those who've received A doctorate in medicine, law and history Those are the ones I wish to talk about, Yet, my tongue trips over the too many obstacles That could have blocked their path And therefore I cannot share their warrior's Victory cry. I cannot do this Without unfolding their stories Of their winter cold. It's tiring, I know, to travel this trodden path, Yet the dream that is achieved cannot be marked Without tipping the hat to their wounded past. They have been like these silent stalks, Blown hard by these winter winds Here they are still standing solid above This carpet of snow.