My Tribe*

The trouble is not
with the names of flowers

how to make fire
or find my way home
on a moonless night.

I dream
of the long walk
and the endless green river.

What happened to the frogs?

The sky
is bruised
above the blood-red sun.

I live among people
with three simple rules

do not kill birds
do not pee at the water-gathering place
and I can never remember the third.


* This poem was published in 2011 at Bolts of Silk



Published by

Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner

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