The Flute's Memory

I heard it in a room,

not far from the heart

not far from the mind

far from the ears

and far from the eyes.

I didn't hear it in the winds,

It was whisking by and

risking its wits against

mine. I heard it in my

soul, It calmed my blood

as it entwined with the paint of

warm reds and cold blues beside

the river's forest set aflame.

I knew I was not in the

scene where its birth was

evident, I was not on the

plains of great massacre,

I was not to run on moccasins

covered in my brother's

bloodshed. Yet my mind

could not separate its

self from the mourns

of the tones and the sorrow

I felt with each breath.

When it was over,

I opened my eyes,

to see a dusted music sheet,

a dirty crusted flute,

and a crimson feather,

worn from years,

from my grandmother's

tribe.