Sun ripples over Easter’s hair
long after
her great great grandmother’s footsteps
are plucked
from Africa’s mangroves
and stuck
like a pair of wild oysters
near the Oconaluftee River.
No use brushing maize off stolen finger tips.
Color sticks like the sound of grand father flutes in grand mother ears,
steam rises
above swamp milk weed and Yellow Lady’s Slippers
around an old nest in a Sweet gum tree
where mourning doves coo to one another,
lay eggs.
Outside her homestead
bare toes tap mixed blood jigs.
After da is done trading furs
he will come home
Amazing poetry and beautiful photo dear Kae
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Thank u so much John… the picture is not mine… but… one of my grandfathers talked about being Cherokee.. but no one took him seriously … recently I did DNA testing on several sites and turns out Granpas stories weren’t just stories .. a lot more Native American ancestory showed up than I expected … looks like grandpa was at least half… so I have been praying and thinking a lot about what this means … why was this practically hidden and not rejoiced over etc etc…finding out on his side … I am mixed… thanks for reblog 🙂
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The Cherokee nation. A powerful tribe. Own language and powerful Native American tribe. You are welcome Kae. The Cherokee held their land in North Carolina. A beautiful place.
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Thank u John:). Your words are kind…
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