Friday, July 25, 2014
Watch how the light folds into the earth
at a seam called the horizon, a bright thread
pulled taut but not broken, woven like a tapestry
between a latticework of tree limbs and the cold
stone distant mountains. Knowing the same light
lit the morning, tugged at the sunflowers
until they turned east, steeped all afternoon
like a cup of tea, and still stitched the day
shut is what it means to believe. Stand
with your hands on your hips and tell me
this sunset is not the reason you were born.
Friday, July 18, 2014
Wet dirt from beside my irrigation pond rises
to the barn’s eaves, up where the roof peaks,
so far out of reach the swallows simply stare
down at me with a bird’s disinclination,
their yellow-tufted heads bobbing like hardhats
in a construction zone, workers plastering
fresh adobe nests to the barn’s red boards.
How ancient the labor, older than our ancestors
coiling clay, studying this architecture of mud.
Friday, July 11, 2014
1981:Yei : Pauline Allen. Chinle Area 21″x 28″
Tour de Sheep
From the checkerboard highway
I watch two women leading four sheep,
one tethered to each hand.
They hurry along a footpath,
not talking, not even to their sheep.
The older woman stays ahead,
the younger close behind.
It’s a beautiful evening, a few patches
of wool with mostly clear skies.