Palomino Gold (Final Version) Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

(to my grandfather (with our dear grandmother) and guardian Mr. Milton B. Young

in fond and eternal memory)

when the gold of palominos pans out in the skies
and the dream horses come to drink the sunrise
then I remember how my sister and I so very young
along with our Grandfather loved Zane Grey
the code of the west, the mystic arrowheads we found
across the street in the vacant lot half full of pines
and how we understood when our Grandfather part Cherokee
and ours by adoption
called to the birds in our backyard
as if from the four winds in the Fairy Tales.
he bought us moccasins at Cherokee Village
and we walked soft in our living room's woods
sneaking up on him in his armchair and he would
say in mock surprise I never heard you coming;
you make good Indians.
and we would laugh and congratulate ourselves
on carrying off the great attack of cherishing so well.
when I look back he was our Chief
cook and bottle washer, watcher of the night skies
who taught us to recognize Orion and the Big Dipper;
and full up with American enterprise
the lore of God and the journeys of St. Paul
to us he was as tall and genial as the trees and kinder than kind.
I miss him so
intent on the cattle rustlers on TV
and because he was, why, so were we.

mary angela douglas 17 january 2022; 22 march 2023