ELA8, CSS, Sferrazza

My ancestors' stories are written

In the Air that fills us, frosty breath of the

Buffalo in winter. Cold, lung-burning,

Hot and heavy, blowing waves across the

Prairies, drawing the pregnant clouds

Slowly, heavily, wetly across the sky.

My ancestors' stories are in the Air.

 My parents' stories are written in the Water. Cool

Spring droplets on brown skin, diving from the clouds above,

Hurtling towards the muddy rivers below, still frosty. Small streams

Race down the sides of tipis, skins stretching into the sky and reaching

Tentatively towards the ground, anchored, solid. Crushed-berry paints

Trace fish, buffalo, deer, caribou, beaver, goose, bear on

The tense canvas, dried and from the Earth.

 

My stories are written in the grooves of bark. My family tree is the Oak which sprawls,

Every leaf a new chapter, every bud a new character, every Summer a new generation.

My stories are written in the Earth, upheaval of dirt beneath roots, the smooth-polished

Stones of rivers and streams. The valleys and canyons carved between mountains

Describe the plot of my destiny, every twist, every turn a new challenge with rock.

The Earth I trod on carries my footprints, the letters printed on the novel of the Earth,

A typewriter of my own, a breathing interpretation.

 

Les Français écrivent sur des morceaux d'arbres morts. They arrived: they, who write on dead tree, paper, bound and restricted in covers of leather. The pages lay stabbed by sharp quills, bleeding ink onto the sheets suffocated against each other. Words lie limp, lifeless, hanging. clinging to the yellow paper for dear life. No life. This is not adventure, this is not legend, this is not culture. This is history, cold fact. The characters are not people, they are inscriptions, emotionless words. My ancestors' stories are in the Air, dancing on our tongues, swaying in the breeze with the leaves, struggling against the current with the salmon.

http://www.our-story.ca/winners/writing/5093:earth-story#story