NHT's Writing Desk

note: I believe flowers were destined for my shaman carpetbag, as hinted at by the following poem
written in my teens –  I doubt I recognized it at the time, but the poem speaks of sacrifice and sacrament, 
of how the former fuels the latter in the quest of practicing one’s medicine.  -NHT


                       

V I O L E T S

In the crisp of a cool spring early morning
warmed slightly by free-flying sunrays,
I walked among my Grandmother’s yard of trees
(my shawl tight to shun the chilling breeze),
setting my wandering, slow paced feet 
on pillow after pillow of moss dark velvet greens --
when at once spring equinox officially arrived 
in a purple patch of violets, 
spied nestling in the insulation of last fallen leaves,
and rising up from the fresh moist earth.
And I, in pleasant rumination, 
breathing core deep of the fragrance,
paused to kneel and take a closer look
(and admittedly to ask for a memento).
when there,
on a low-hanging violet leaflet,
slumbering in a space who face 
basked in the warm reward of sun,
lay an inert, misplaced housefly.
And I, with a sighing silent whisper, idled:
“To be entombed in violets high!”

-NHT
©1970

                                                                                                           

embroidered ribbon violets