Trapped in a glass lung,water waits to be drawn
then sipped between gossip
Its spirit reducedto these shared
ounces and hours
in an office
which should bea stream or river
polishing stones, soaking through
tree roots and keeping
the earth cool
while fragments of former liveslie embedded
among shoots of new growth.
My tendons are stemsstretching , binding movement
to wind and light,
white pines and old world sparrows.
history deep, a hearth
exposed on a hill
where there’s enoughshards of clay and wood
the rattle’s shake for rain
Where a woman stirredpots and carved dolls
with a paring knife,
her fingers scentedwith tea olive, limber
as the bark of a sapling.
I was not born therebut born of her.
Her ancestry ringedaround those joints
that let me travel
telling my bones
their song is the songof the seeker, the wood wife
who sleeps on the ground
and listens for water --
the course of her next journey.