Looking Through Stained Glass

In Quiet Tribute



I awaken as I do each day
In the mutable concaves between Luna and Sol
Usually in haste I fling my cascade of gray strands out the way
But this morning I adorn them in a particular array

I don’t want to impose on those who still sleep
Preferring the dark to light anyway
I attain dress garb from traditions deep
And from the lodge I slowly creep

Another year circled in the quiet morning
I make my way before the new day is dawning


Careful not to lose the feathers in my hair
As I climb the plateau round and steep
I come to a clearing old as the first pioneers
And take stock of what has brought me there

I do that which only this mother has case to do
My face stained in colors of tribute with care
I fidget upon the ground still damp with dew
And whispers “My Hawk, my child in honor of you”

I circle the plateau in the quiet morning
Hints of a new day not yet dawning

A hawk caught in a high electrical line’s thwart
My son climbed the pole as other said not to
All night he heard the bird’s cry for rescue in part
He slides close, he and the bird mere inches apart

My son, whom I taught to value all that lives
I gave license with those lessons very close to heart
Still I’d change not one word of my missive
Even if I’d known just how much he’d give

Still there’s a peace in the quiet morning
As I pay a tribute just as the new day is dawning


So I begin my dance my first step unsure
Not having stepped as so since last year relive
But I calls on the spirits to procure
The utensils I need to help me endure

I dance for my son gone this day many moons ago
Young when I first danced now many years mature
He risked his own life for his name sake although
Both died, he had done what he believed is just so

Such a long ago quiet morning
When his last new day is dawning


My old bones don’t hold same grace
And the efforts to honor him are starting to show
But the long held traditions hold my dance in place
As my heart keeps beat in the quiet space

Always act with amain while being true to one’s soul
All that he was taught from the first word he could say
That to do that all considered beyond our control
Was never, ever an act in vain and worthy of extol

And with each earth’s revolution, in the quiet morning
I give this private tribute as the new day is dawning

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raivenne@theraivenne.com

© 2005 Raivenne (All rights reserved)

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