The sun rises and calls our people to the land The babies clutched, children taken in hand. Blanketed, shivering bodies in the spring air Quickly we assemble for the journey Voices speak quietly; our people are ready. Rows of deep blue mountains fading into the sky Keeping watch over us; sentries from high. We walk past the spring where the water runs deep Life blood of our people, quietly blessed We trek along its path, continuing our quest. A prairie breeze rushes past, pulling at our clothes, It whispers in ears and tells of the woes Of a woman who cried for her starving people A bird was sent that spoke of bitter tears Drops that fed a plant, feeding our people for years. The biting wind was cold and our feet pushed faster It moans and speaks for every ancestor The land that we walk upon is our heritage This earth isn’t ours, just a caretaker Of this blessed land, the people of our Creator Our feet stumble over the dry soil and rocks Tracing trails our tribe still hunts and walks Searching for wild game and berries for the table Teaching our young of flowers and fauna Now focused on the ground, seeking the red diva. The searchers part, fingers pull on the dewy brush Pushing away grass, hurrying to rush And find the small plant, the guardian of our land The tubular sprout that hides in dry soil From all hands that seek, regardless of the toil. Both young and old are searching for the small, slight sprout Ancient rocks are pulled, then heard is a shout. A young voice cries, “I found it!” Excited and proud. Young and old group to see the succulent Eyeing the pink buds and the roots of the green plant. Small fingers pass the sprout to a Salish elder The plant is taken and then held tender Withered fingers lift it, thanking our Creator For once again we harvest in tribute The symbol of our ancestors, the Bitterroot.
Diane Caudle
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