The Esquimos Have No Word for "War"
Trying to explain it to them
Leaves one feeling ridiculous and obscene.
Their houses, like white bowls,
Sit on a prairie of ancient snowfalls
Caught beyond thaw or the swift changes
Of night and day.
They listen politely, and stride away
With spears and sleds and barking dogs
To hunt for food. The women wait
Chewing on skins or singing songs,
Knowing that they have hours to spend,
That the luck of the hunter is often late.
Later, by fires and boiling bones
In steaming kettles, they welcome me,
Far kin, pale brother,
To share what they have in a hungry time
In a difficult land. While I talk on
Of the southern kingdoms, cannon, armies,
Shifting alliances, airplanes, power,
They chew their bones, and smile at one another.
It's cold out. 5 degrees this morning. My poor little car, with its stiff suspension, stumbles and bumps over the ice. How I love the heated seat!
Just got home from work, and have decided that today is my one day off from exercising for the week. Tonight I need the feel of fiber and yarn in my hands more than I need an accelerated heart rate.
Tomorrow is Zig's 54th birthday. I think he will like the gifts that wait for him. They (the gifts) make me smile when I think of them.