The Cradkes Of Nard Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Up in the cradles of nard- up in the jubilee of
The feathers of Indian headdresses:
Taking walks in the cauldrons, following the indistinguishable
Tracks of a sky without a moon:
Without my dogs, I am wandering, and the fences are high and
Low,
The seesaws just as equal and only halfway populated by
The blue squaws smoking blue wood out of their
Leathered chimneys,
Making the trees curl their leaves while ungodly faces grow
Out of their lightning stricken grandmothers:
And I think of her and saddle up as I cast my ungainly
Strides towards the graveyards.