Pine Mountain Cemetery V
                     Sary

Cherokee cheeks, bright button eyes,
Black hair with never a white streak
Braided down her burdened back.

We won’t grieve for her over there
Under a limestone rock. Isn’t done
When one lives to be ninety one.

To have lived so long in another’s hogan
Three generations gave little heed to tasks
Deliberately undone and left for her.

I’d quarrel too if the great spirit left me
Stranded far from those who knew how
My four feet passed so well in our tribe.

Her fingers never still she created
Wonders of weaving, quilting, too.
Treasures now but too late for her.

I’ll leave this little grass basket, a copy
She taught me to weave on a quiet
Morning under an Indian summer sky.