Quill, I carry porcupine quills from my ears, they have been softened by the mouth of an Ojibwa woman, cut carefully into adornments instead of weapons. I spent a long time at her tent, watching her at her craft, admiring the skill and the time, knowing I could not afford her embroidered works nor the effort she spent on them. Her young admirer, in jeans and pigtails, tells me again about how she makes them. The sun is ice-cream hot, we all drove here in cars gleaming in the heat, but the craft that was here before us still continues on. As an artist, isn’t it comforting that your love will live beyond you?
Quill, I carry porcupine quills from my ears, they have been softened by the mouth of an Ojibwa woman, cut carefully into adornments instead of weapons. I spent a long time at her tent, watching her at her craft, admiring the skill and the time, knowing I could not afford her embroidered works nor the effort she spent on them. Her young admirer, in jeans and pigtails, tells me again about how she makes them. The sun is ice-cream hot, we all drove here in cars gleaming in the heat, but the craft that was here before us still continues on. As an artist, isn’t it comforting that your love will live beyond you?