She’d be an Indian Princess   
if these were days of old—   
riding painted ponies
with head held proud and bold.

She’d marry in her early years
a brave quite tall and wild,   
and soon she’d carry papoose,
her precious Indian child.

She’d dry the venison jerky,
and fish creeks running free   
while her Indian mate sought bison
that roamed the great prairie.

She’d migrate with the seasons—
follow tribe both far and wide   
finding happy hunting grounds,
and land they could abide.

In spring, with weather changing,
warm sunshine melting snow,
she’d mend and fashion moccasins,
and dry meat of buffalo.

In summer, bathe in waters
running cold from mountain stream,
and sleep upon the open ground—
no teepee o’re to dream.

In fall, among rich colors,
ripe berries she would seek   
to feed her hungry tribesmen   
in weather cold and bleak.

In winter, wood she’d gather
to keep the fires warm,
wrapped snug in robes of buffalo,
surviving bitter storms.

Ancestral blood inherited
still courses through her veins,
but life no more is peaceful
roaming free out on the range.

Yes, she’d be an Indian Princess
but no one knows her name,
integrated in the white man’s world
where everyone’s the same.


Tamara Hillman
 ©2004