The Debaajimod : Native American Poetry

The smoke lay low on the village

The ice is melting in the sun

Of the late afternoon from the

Rushes of the wiigiwaam

Plip… plip… plip… plop

Plip… plip… plip… plop.

The birch flap opens to slip a gentle wind

As one by one the children enter

To gather in eagerness on the aged woman’s floor.

She settles herself above them balanced

On a wooden crate from the Frenchman’s trade

Her ankles crossed, moccasins toward the fire.

From creased lips her words quiver

As the moth flickering about her flames.

Through the birch walls filter

The muted sounds of a hungry baby

And the pleasant perfume of maple sugar.

She uses her walking stick to illustrate

The stories that she weaves,

As a spider, she can spin her yarn

To hold her captive audience, entranced.

She reveals the legends in the winter months

To preserve the altering powers that they hold.

The dust comes alive with the spirits of the

Skunk, rabbit and Wemicus, the trickster.

She shares the lessons of Earth Mother,

The Great Spirit and the Seven Grandfathers

To the village children, so that they

May know the traditions of their birth rite,

The customs of their people.

After a time the old woman begins to weary,

She sends the children on their way

With the promise that tomorrow she will tell them

The tale of Nokomis and the Dream Catcher. 

At last she lay her bones to rest

Beneath the power of the silvery web

To dream an old woman’s dreams

In the stillness of the wiigiwaam…

And the smoke lay low on the village.