by Norbert Blei
Hunted for a poem
about the Indian in you
when the full moon staked the woods
and later floated white upon the landscape
like a watercolor, bending line in such
magic, not to mention form.
You couldn’t hear a stick break.
This morning there was that sun
sneaking up again. . .
You could dance it around on a string
for a day and never quite
catch that full moon ahead, fading fast
in a blue drum sky,
taking with it all that’s left of those
stars last night
that brought on the circle in this poem,
and that soft Indian centering
the quiet celebration
of just being
(featured in the lowdown, 2014, street corner press)