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The Moccasins of an Old Man


I hung you there, moccasins of worn buckskin.

I hung you there and there you are still.

I took you from the hot flesh of a swift buck.

I took you to my woman.


She tanned you with buck brains.

She cut and sewed and beaded.

I wore you with pride.

I wore you with leaping steps over many grounds.


Now, I sit here and my bones

are stiff with many winters.

You hang there and I shall sit.

We shall watch the night approach.


-Romona Carden (Colville)

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