I'm standing
	on the shore 
		of a river
It's currents call me
	to the soul of a land that bleeds
		through veins of history
Telling me of pain
	stalking in shadows
		of oak and aspen
			whose tears
				ripple in the mirrored
					eyes of bison on the
						withering plains
And eagles
	surfing
		thermals
			on the sun sewn cliffs
				of the scar
Left behind by the Mississippi
	as it plays back the lips
		of the native shaman
			spreading hands to the wisdom
				flowing
					in a solemn breeze
The petals of a fading spring
	dance
		gently at the foot of Minneapolis
			and the corporate throne
				of diversity
Drifting
	softly
		in the palm of an ancient hand
			that wrestles with the toxic dragons
				of industrial
					animosity
I watch it all
	in the currents
		sucking compassion from my toes
			as I lay down my
				contemplation
Wanting to step out
	into the cool 
		liquid fantasy
			that drinks the sun
				within the Lakota and
					Ojibway
						drum song
But I can only
	reach out
		with a feeble
			stream of visuality
As I become
	a drop in the 
		life consumed by the river
			and it's ageless
				fertility

(c) 1997 Oliver Smith