Daughter of the lands, did you wait for your poet?
Do not blame the elder land-earth or separate yourself
From it.
Predecessor shadow of mine, you go to and fro
Weaving and singing, soothing and dreaming,
Searching and sailing, but never changing stances
From chosen contemplating.
How often have I wondered, where you ought to fit
I can see you pacing in forest’s deepest pit and
Amongst you are Elven and Angels, and all of Heaven’s pets –
Not one of them questions your embracing of moccasins,
Sari and brightest purple sweats. None are baffled;
Not one loves you not. Oh, if there was no difference
Between “can” and “there ought”!
Nichole Squire 