Kaministiquia totem poem
by Maureen Ford on Friday, September 10, 2010 at 12:04am
At a certain time in the morning, the river flows so quietly that its surface becomes
a looking glass. Rock, tree, moss and shadow play the painter.
As if in answer to a Shaman’s rattle
the shoreline gives way to a totem’s symmetry.
I watch silently from the bank, waiting
to see if the beached gods call
the river denizens to worship, but
it is apparent, on this final morning of summer, that there is only me.
With a wordless prayer I call to the totem, and as the glass opens, I slip in.
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