Women Indian


By Linda A. Copp

Crimson shades long since drawn,
color fading like the sunlight,
as the day slips by.
And the dusk settles in,
mists of white,
murky then gray.

Like strawberry to squirrel,
once fresh on the vine,
Then left to scamper, to scatter,
to herd what is left,
before winter comes.
And then to vanish as she falls,
maybe to return the next spring,
if it comes.
Perhaps to perish like the Autumn leaves
or to form the fingers of an icicle's tears.

Crimson drapes fading,
so does the light.
Have her prayers, her cries,
fallen on deaf ears,
dumb tongues?

A dress of sorrow,
cinched by a belt of pride,
Being torn and worn away,
by, the thrust of those,
who wish them,
to that forgotten place.

She cannot breathe,
not now,
not when the air is stale and dead.
And what's hers is ripped away.

Crimson shades, falling,
almost asleep.
Yet, with blush in cheek
she fights for that she's been denied,
the promise which is hers.

Peace Pipe

Crimson to steel,
strawberry to gray
Color dulls, like the eyes,
like our cries,
so, like the lies
of Peace.

By Linda A. Copp

November 14, 1970

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