Trail of Tears: The Irony
I finally caught up with myself
too slow on the draw I choked.
Everything I once knew to be true
now drowns in that great fog
we call our mind, that great gig
inside our head, the gray dog of thought.
I have found it’s never too late
to stand beneath a tree and give thanks
for dreams left behind by the holy Chippewas,
Dakotas, Chickasaws, and Shoshoni.
They were the founders of joy in setting suns,
rising moons, and dry tears of the lonely wolf.
I knelt before the Great Oak and began to cry.
My brave ancestors bloodied and bruised
began a long trek west urged on by the white man’s whip.
We buy candied apples and cotton candy to celebrate
the very day Hunting Moon and Gray Cloud took their last gulp of freedom.
Many died on the trail of tears. We buy tickets for canoe trips to pay tribute.