To the Osage Mother

Who foraged these Ozark woods before . . .

Whose daughters and sons learned the quiet,
                the stillness of the deer hunt, on pain
                of hunger, pang of feast forfeited to
                a wayward footfall in the wee hours;

Whose brothers and husbands could wield
                bone needle as well as she, threaded
                with sinew for wedding hides tanned

                for winter shelter and summer shade;

Whose own mother grew impatient with age
                with any careless weave of a willow
                basket, so gathered shoots in shallows
                and tutored fresh-fingered children;

Whose father felt the freedom of this place
                long before . . . foreign talk of it rang
                hollow, dividing, subdividing the land
                into parcels, taking without knowing;
    
I long to ask you questions,

                but where can I find you now?

I wish to dwell with your wisdom,
                but how to resurrect it?

 
If I dance beside this spring,
                will your spirit seep forth truth— 

                strike me dumb and instruct?