raw-hide drums
chant legends
of tragedy
of triumph
of sorrow
of joy
within each pulse
wise silence whispers
 in between
the thundering raindrops
pounding on stretched skin
that echo wisdom
to those who listen
each beat speaks
and resonate
Draw breath.
Release
Be.

February swallowed you
(or maybe it was the barbarians of Eskasoni)
No trace.
Gone.
Just gone.


A sweet girl Child.
Gone.
Mi’kmaq eyes Native hair.
Gone.
The Red ball cap.
Gone.


The Nor’ Easter wind cried
Where is my girl?
O where has my little girl gone?


December unearthed you.
Remains. Silent.
Tucked in. Still.
In the fallen autumn.


A sweet girl Child.
Found.
Mi’kmaq eyes Native hair.
Found.
The Red ball cap.
Found.

Broken. Still. Beautiful.


The December wind whispers
Sleep now, sweet Terrilynne,
Sleep now.
You have been found.


What were the last words you spoke?
I bet the barbarians of Eskasoni know.