To Anna
HillÕs ÒCloudÓ Painting
EÕen as
Mi-nam-bo-zho brought
The Good Medicine, so hath she
wrought
From out the mortars of the sky
ArtÕs precious meal of ministry,
For in her ÒCloudÓ we hear again
The storm gods pestling the rain
Round upon round, with tumbling din
Grinding the Good Medicine
That even the art-starved souls of
men
May live again.