Tending the Embers

Tending the Embers Probing the gift Gray haired Warted and shriveled Scarred Burden and burdened Tending my place The last line A quiet insult Only warm in my memories Slowest in line Cold, always cold. Thus I tend the embers. Wearing those, all too few gifts Broken by my own use Having lived too long And culled so much meat Taking, being young Alive in every beat Fire in deed and hair Greatest in my time My place I saw them first Hairy mounds of need Tusked and roaming As were we Pack against pack Now I tend the embers. Calloused and cold Memoried only in my own mind So less my own teacher And needed not by my students Struck and graven Drawing on stone As I was taught Shades under grass Shapes needed over plains Never more than meat I carved As much the herd, as hunter Tending dying embers. When I was young I bore a spear I struck without mercy I drove home shaft and stone And carved my home with meat and happiness I made mothers from children And fed my children to be mothers I obeyed the law Became one stone, one spear Amongst the many Now, I am tending my embers. Moving from herd to falling, Touching my take Drawing stone against stone Driving myself deep into the eternal Shaping myself with my own stone A cold stone In a cold time Tending the embers. -C.A.Wooding. Written November 3rd, 2001 © on Dec 06 2001 01:40 AM PST   10 • 0