Snowshoes

He remembers barely able to walk,
fitting on his first snowshoes
and falling,
falling into windswept snow,
struggling to stand.
Knowing this failure as his own
whiteness, he dreamed always dreamed of the day he would learn

(it all, to split ash, heat it over the fire
to make it workable, to weave
a spidery pattern of sinew and raw mooshide).

And the day came, no, it was night.
He doesn't remember exactly
when, because
it came gradually like the wearing
down of the season.
He stood, walked, and then even ran.
Twirled round and called out
to Basshkaakodin Giizis,
the freezing moon,
come dance.

Armand Garnet Ruffo, Grey Owl, page 170