Grandmother

When he died in the river, 
She knew. In her kitchen the morning stopped short of 
The dawn and centered her stillness on water, 
The smell of sawdust from his overalls 
Filling the room as the teakettle whistled, unheard.
His black eyes and rough smile had taken her balance, his 
Force flickering fierce as days’ doors closed them in, 
And every small light passing between them 
Just ripened her knowing, her ken, 
So that long before men holding hats in their hands 
Moved through the morning to bring her the news,

Her heart had just plunged from future, from dreams. 
Maybe that knowing had nothing to do with 
Their bond, but burned up through her sinews and cells 
From the dust of her sisters and mothers, countries of women
Whose limitless borders were porous beyond time and 
Geography’s edge; her way in the world at one with 
The eons, structuring passages always unknown.
But she knew, and over the years there were times that her 
Spirit went out to meet what would happen again:

Dead cat in a ditch, clock stopped in a parlor far from the death,
Anticipation designing her motion through life

And her energy more than one woman’s should be.
He died in steel waters, under rough rafts 
Breaking up in the night, logs flailing in storm-darkened
Violence before it subsided, mist floating in daybreak, 
Calm flows carrying him far from the chaos where 
Fate and chance tumbled his life to its’ close. 
She’s been waiting for me, reaching to show me, stepping through 
Time and into the knowing where memory hovers, mine and the others, 
Her memory and theirs: apprehending, guiding and telling. 
I wake up to myself, and remember my way 
Back to my Grandmother, and them.

Returning From Taos

Tonight the half-moon is bright,
Shining like a perfect scepter
in the gift of black sky,

And across this small landscape
Gardens, projects, homeostases
Birth

I suppose finding home 
Is really about finding the pieces
Of internal peace, external peace

In some ways I was building home,
Criss-crossing the country in 
Ways that make sense to me
Collecting them

Brilliant, this half-moon,
Steady through the window's ellipse
and like a beacon --

Better yet, a streetlight,
Hovering skytime streetlight
On home's cosmic corners --
Here, it says, you
Assemble home.