the otherworld is watching.
Charles de Lint
In the house of desert stone
the sun first shines on a wash bowl
and pitcher half-filled with water.
The other half sinks into the skin
of a woman who arose
with lamplight and the need to write.
Having washed off the sweat of old dreams
and some tears, she listens to the wind.
Outside, the soft hum of womanly song
hangs over the saguaro
like wool on a spindle — waiting to be spun
into her own grief or joy. A way of living
she wants to leave her daughters
before she journeys thin and transparent
into the field. Her ancestors there
throat- singing at the edge of a trail
once traveled by wagons. Now by coyotes
who breathe in dust and taste the salt
of unseen hands. Their kinswoman
within reach. A day’s length in coming.