Palomino Gold

(to my grandfather (with our dear grandmother) and guardian Mr. Milton B. Young

in fond and eternal memory)

when the gold of palominos pans out in the skies

and the dream horses come to drink the sunrise

then I remember how my sister and I so very young

along with our Grandfather loved Zane Grey

the code of the west, the mystic arrowheads we found

across the street in the vacant lot half full of pines

and how we understood when our Grandfather part Cherokee

and ours by adoption

called to the birds in our backyard

as if from the four winds in the Fairy Tales.

he bought us moccasins at Cherokee Village

and we walked soft in our living room's woods

sneaking up on him in his armchair and he would

say in mock surprise I never heard you coming;

you make good Indians

and we would laugh and congratulate ourselves

on carrying off the great attack of cherishing.

when I look back he was our Chief

cook and bottle washer, watcher of the night skies

who taught us to recognize Orion and the Big Dipper;

and full up with American enterprise

the lore of God and the journeys of St. Paul

to us he was as tall  and genial as the trees and kinder than kind.

I miss him so

intent on the cattle rustlers on TV

and because he was, why, so were we.

mary angela douglas 17 january 2022