I heard Slavic tales of the hush
resting on the wheel of the beer wagon
leapt into more than cold darkness
She sprang into a womanof sprawling hair and slender hips,
a white gown and arms bundled
with bull rushes that would be used
to craft her broom.
I found traces of the hushwhere paw prints turned into heel marks;
and a hematite buckle from her shoe
framed some catkins fallen off
their long stalk, and fine threads of wool.
She was gone gathering the hourswith her wild dance and broom sweeping down
shadows and stars. Wishes and secrets
from ancestors she knew. From women
who spun straw into gold, placed brass
bed warmers between the sheets
and infants from the elfin world. Women
who read cards and brewed more
than a kettle of soup or tea. Women like me who know
the feel of that hush in their bones
when blood turns to ink, and the idle hand
of a writer takes wing.