TAMARACK BLUE
31
To welcome her. The daughter paused, uncertain,The passing of a breath. Haunted her face;The dear dim ghosts of wildwood yesterdaysLaid gentle hands upon the half-breed's heart,Struggled to bring her soul to life again.She wavered. Then conscious of the batteryOf parish eyes upon her, the village codeRich with taboos of blue and flinty flesh,And mindful of the gulf between the two,Sprung from her Christian culture at the Fort,She gathered up her new-born pride, and froze.With eyes as cold and stony as a pike'sShe looked at Tamarack—as on a vagrant wind;With but the tremor of a lip, a fleetingHail and farewell, she slipped her flaccid palmFrom out the pagan's gnarled and weathered handAnd rustled down the room and out the door,The stranger at her heels—a coyote warmAnd drooling on the trail of musky deer.
The widow held her posture, breathless, stunned;Swayed for a moment, blindly groped her way,And wilted to the bench—as when a mallard,
