Such hands!

So scarred and chapped

like the bark on a tree

before it peels away.

And the face is a mirror,

a looking glass to when

times were lonelier

and words were freer.

Freer, like the gosling’s wings as

he reaches land,

before

he becomes mature.

He is nature.

He is Iroquois by birth

but has been made

animalistic.

He has seen much.

His eyes are tired as if

they hold up his head, like

they hold all his weight.

The weight on his shoulders

is in his pride.

He will never fail his spirit.

His death cannot shake his resolve.

Like the roots of a tree his massive feet

hold his ground.

He will not be swayed

not even

by the wind.