The Flag Has Dropped
by Lenora Rain-Lee Good
My feet squeak in the new fallen snow
as I make my careful way to the mailbox.
Stopping prior to the box, the fence,
the sentinel tree, I hold my breath and see
what the First Peoples must have seen
without the fence, the mailbox containing
winter cards and bills, the mesas, the
valleys, the far-off mountains and wonder
did they, too, stop and wonder the beauty
before journeying on? Or were they too cold
in their buckskins and buffalo robes, their
grass-filled moccasins, to see, to care?
|
