Dust of Days

At times I pause to turn a backward glance
Though doing so illuminates the lie;
I long to see once more the mustang prance
Yet sorrow fogs the desert to my eye.
I cannot walk the path that leads me home,
That way is lost beneath the dust of days,
But I will dream and let my spirit roam
On painted prairies where the bison graze;
These hands will craft again a hunting bow
And twine a single feather in my hair;
My soul will sing the songs my people know
And I will dance the stories we would share.
     What cost was paid when first my nation fell?
     No bead remains, not one unbroken shell.


© 2013 William Keller

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