“Indian Grandmother,” Ensign, Mar. 1979, 61
Indian Grandmother
First Place Eliza R. Snow Poetry Contest
Old One,
Forgive me for the long
Dark braids that do not
Fall down my back
And do not brush the arm
Of a fine strong husband,
As yours did.
Forgive me
For the pale words
And gray thoughts
That kept your
Good red blood
Out of my heart
For lo these long years,
These years of growing
Out of myself
And into God,
Out of despair
And into humility.
Old One,
When you find Him,
Tell Him of my love,
Tell Him I am finally
Receiving with upturned
Hands the gifts He has been
Drenching me with
Patiently,
Tenderly,
Constantly.
Tell Him how I love seeing
Your name every time I write
My own.
Tell Him I get up
Every morning
Joyous
With my heritage from Him
And my legacy from you.
Old One,
Think well of this,
Your daughter in flesh.
Speak kindly of me
When the moon begins
To bleed and He dons His
Wine-red robe.
Call me now, Old One;
Call my name
And whisper yours,
So that, hearing
Your voice, I may better
Be attuned for His.
Photograph from Edward S. Curtis’s North American Indian Collection, Brigham Young University