Slow Smoke/Chief Bloody-Feather

by Lew Sarett

CHIEF BLOODY-FEATHER A Council-chief

Ringed by platoons of stoic bronze, the chief
Stood up in council-grove above the rabble—
Headmen and chiefs, hunters, jugglers, braves,
The children of his loins, his children's children—
Above this host the council-speaker loomed:
An ancient maple-tree, a strong sweet tree
That has made wild music from the wind and snow
For ninety winters; a maple-tree whose arms,
Stretching against the rain, the bouncing hail,
Has sheltered multitudes of travellers
And straggling hosts of elders, wayworn, palsied,
And weary with the day,—for ninety summers.

A maple that has yielded up its life
Season on sugar-season—oh, what can be
More tragic in its beauty than a maple:
Swollen and scarred of trunk, and varicose
From gashes in the bark, from too many wounds
Of too many spiles that let out too much sap,
From too much giving, giving for ninety years,
For ninety Moons-of-Maple-Sugar-Making,
For ninety Moons-of-Gathering-of-Wild-Rice,
For ninety Moons-of-the-Falling-of-the-Leaves,
For ninety Moons-of-the-Coming-of-the-Snow.