Classic Poem

The clouds are ragged as his clothes,
fox-grey and bloody from new wounds.
The river is a vein that flows
towards his hermit heart, festooned

with briars, and with poison oak.
Five beaver pelts press on his spine;
the spirit of an arrow strokes
his beard; his sweat turns into brine.

He'll build a tiny pillar of stone
in his mind, and only speak to those
who speak to him, for when alone
the Lord keeps him wherever he goes.