Peaceful is the valley
where the Indian maiden walks.
In morning skies above her
a Raven soars and squawks.

The village of her people
lies quiet and serene
as her moccasins trudge narrow paths
through meadows lush and green.

She knows ancestral spirits
will protect her and will guide
as the trail leads her much higher
along the mountainside.

Gathering roots and berries
to preserve through winter’s cold,
the maiden sings of ancient wars,
of young men brave and bold.

She rests by flowing waters
as sunlight streaks her hair,
with fingers dipping in the brook,
wild creatures gather there.

The fox, the deer, the Antelope
join her without sound,
fearing not the Indian girl
sitting soft upon the ground.

The mighty oak she leans against
is losing leaves but strong,
and she feels at one with nature
while summer is now gone.





Fall colors fast surround her,
and she marvels at their hue,
as Mother Earth makes changes
for wintertime now due.

A butterfly lights gently
on her shoulder, quiet there,
and she wonders at it’s glory,
breathing softly, not to scare.

The geese on high are honking
as they pass in perfect Vs,
and she hears on withering flowers
the last hum of bumble-bees.

Soon the sweet young maiden
slumbers by the stream,
and rides her painted pony
in a soft and pleasant dream.

She crosses open prairie,
bareback upon her steed,
with a Brave she soon will marry
to keep the tribal creed.

A Blue Jay lands on oaken branch
and screeches overhead,
awakening the maiden
with visions in her head.

With heavy heart she rises,
returning to the band,
baskets of fresh berries
held tightly in her hand.

Plans for her tomorrows,
on other autumn days,
will be dreamed of in the future
as she sits on banks of clay.

Later ‘neath the quiet moon,
the family gathers ‘round
preparing beds on pine bows
strewn upon the ground.

Nestled in warm buffalo robes
beneath the starry skies,
with teepee for a shelter,
she again will close her eyes.
 

Poetry by Tamara Hillman Copyright 2003
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