by Stewart S. Warren
The Lord Of The Children
looks down on his village
and sees blue windows
opening into old mud,
sees giant cottonwoods
in late afternoon,
their trunks deeply grooved
by years of crying
into the forgiving earth.
Inside the village: frybread,
plum jelly, some horses, dancers
on the opposite roof.
Beyond the stables he sees
two pickups parked in a field
exchanging CDs for dope;
sees the dirt road turning
to asphalt, cyber arcades,
plastic dogs, police force.
At sunset he stands
with eagle fan and remembers
his many nieces and nephews.
He sees the turning of their lives
like the naked trout that twist
in the stream that runs
through his village
from east to west.
At First Star he climbs down
through four stories of quiet eyes,
speaking to no one, gathering
Grandmother Blessings,
following the well-worn wooden rungs
to make his final descent
into the circular earth.
As he passes I nod: pray for me, Uncle.
Then the Lord Of The Children
washes his hands in curling smoke
and takes his place around the drum,
sending frybread, mountain water,
fresh horses
from the Center Of The World
to the children
that are far from home.
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