Elegy to the Sioux

The vase was made of clay With spines of straw For strength. The sunbaked vase Soaked in a deep blue dye for days. The events in this wilderness, Portrayed in the round of the vase, Depend on shades of indigo against The masked areas of the clay, a flat pearl color To detail the big sky and snow... This Montana field in winter is not sorrowful: A bugle skips through notes: We view it all somehow from the center of the field And there are scattered groups of cavalry. Some of these Men were seasoned by civil war. Their caps are blue. Their canteens are frozen. The horses shake their heads Bothered by beads of ice, the needles of ice Forming at both sides of their great anvil heads. The long, blue cloaks of the officers fall over the haunches Of the horses. The ammunition wagons Beside the woods are blurred by the snowy weather... Beyond the wagons, farther even, into the woods There is a sloping streambed. This is The dark side of the vase which is often misunderstood. From here through the bare trees there’s A strange sight to be seen at the very middle of the field: A valet is holding a bowl of cherries—archetype and rubric, A general with white hair eats the fruit while introducing its color Which will flow through the woods in early December. An Indian woman came under dark clouds to give birth, unattended In the deep wash inside the woods. She knew the weather Could turn and staked the tips of two rooted spruce trees To the earth to make a roof. The deerskin of her robe is in her mouth. Her legs spread, He feet are tied up in the roof of darkening spruce.No stars Show through!