- Books, Literature, and Writing
A poem about growing up in the country
In My Tribe
In my tribe we prefer the touch of
Mother Earth on our bare feet to the
shackles of shoes or straight jacket socks.
In my tribe we eat simply beneath the clouds
bread in one hand, cheese in the other,
a bottle of wine between our knees.
In my tribe days are thirty hours long,
not because we wish to be more productive
but so we may ponder all we chose to ignore
with our backs against a worn tree trunk,
our eyes lost in some distant clump of cat tails,
drumming fingers keeping time with the sparrows.
In my tribe everything is precious,
gathered and kept with five year old glee
including the autumn sheddings of trees
which we cup and cast over the water's edge,
not out of remembrance or thanks but
simply because we wish to.