TAMARACK BLUE
27
Perhaps the village folk who always tookA Christian interest in Susie's morals.But Thursday found the wistful derelictStiff on a bench in Mission Sacré CœurMore taut for the high sweet moment of her lifeThan quivering catgut strung upon a fiddle—For Susie was to sing in Corpus Christi;The pagan was about to claim her own.
I'd never seen the squaw in her Sunday-best:Soft doeskin moccasins of corn-flower blue,Patterned with lemon beads and lemon quills;Checkered vermilion gown of calicoTo hide her flinty shins, her thin flat hips;An umber shawl, drawn tight about her headAnd anchored at her breast by leather hands—A dubious madonna of the pines.Somehow the crone had burst her dull cocoonUpon this day, was almost radiantWith loveliness, as if upon the new-bornWings of desire she were about to leaveThe earth and know the luxury of sunlight.The apologetic eyes, the mien of oneBludgeoned to earth by rancid drollery,Had vanished; on her face there was the look
