Red Plums Wild Poem by Barbara Attaway

To preserve this day, I pick red plums wild
Within my soul, I dream a while
A vision ancient, to me smiles
Of plums growing wild in thickets dark
There for taking by man or lark
Beside running water where beavers bark
I hear the drums for miles

Smoke signals lifting high in sky
On summer's breeze they drift and sigh
Indian village steals my eye
Women gathering, pounding, grinding
Saving fruits of summer ending
In cakes for winter's cold day feasting
'Round evening fires, high and dry

Painted ponies heading west
Hunter's talismans cover chests
Put their knapping skills to test
Not one willing to be the lag
Arrow drawn to down his stag
Rights this night will be to brag
Whose spear point flew the best

Allegiance to 'Great White Father' sworn
Many moons later, treaties torn
Their ways, their days, their hopes forlorn
For wild plum cakes and venison stews
Thought safe in tepees 'neath cold skies blue
Sore gleaning here in peaceful view
For them I shall forever mourn

While picking I shall forever mourn