—For my grandmother
And for Joy Harjo
This guttural breath of thunder
commanded me to find her here
far from the place we both know—
her hands beckoning,
her feet in snow,
the sun on her black hair,
her skirt a hyacinth
spilling lilac or sapphire,
her face smooth as river pearls.
For a moment I sit with her
among whatever these shivery trees are
and watch her hair turn silver.
Then I on my knees my right hand
trembling with one wild stream of hair,
my left hand gathering another,
and another I braid
then braid
to her waist—
she gives me clover
to fasten
what the wind cannot contain—
Soon my eyes and hands
are empty of her, I stand here on Cemetery
Lane in white daisies and columbine—
Across the sound of mountains,
she gives me my name
it rumbles from sky,
slips through leaves,
flows in streambeds,
catches on wings—
She Who Listens
To Hummingbirds—
a sanctuary now my own
