i'm a stranger to the soil of my father's boots
a tourist to my mother's virgin sky
and still they call me home
to my birth i never attended
there was a land, a way, and a people,
and it was hard, they were hard,
and harder to understand and now
it only lives in portraits
upon the walls of the unknowing
it was my mother's mother and
her mother's husband and her husbands
father creating a trail of tears
that led from Quebec to the portals of my soul
the birth i attended long after they buried me
was in the planting of the corn, and the harvest
was three moons out of season while time
skipped pages back to where the blood
seeped the soil, and the seeds were lost to euroclydin
and from this great tempest the earth spit me out
from the womb of so many adoptive mothers
who tried to teach me their ways and tongues
while stripping me of my leather and beads
but now, so all alone in my understanding
but finally accepting of it's truth
i find my father's boots and under my mother's sky
i lick the soil which has become my blood
and i answer to the call of Acadia
rick
