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 the grounds.

Now I sit and my bones are stiff

with many winters.

You hang there and I shall sit.

We shall watch the night approach.

Romona Carden

Background by Vera