From the fire without end
The white limestone rocks travel
Over Grandmother Unci’s path
Into Our Mother’s womb.
Dark, warm, damp,
With the smell of cedar,
Sage crunching underfoot.
In the centre within
Glowing stones pile up high.
Tunka stirs in his sleep
When cool water pours
Onto his shoulders, and, hissing,
Grandfather’s fiery white breath
Kisses our skin.
© jsmorgane (Jan 10)
Taste the stone
You are holding
In your hand.
It smells of rains,
Like the waterfall
Gushing down your throat.
It smells of winter wind,
When you throw it
High into the crystal sky.
It smells of blood
Which its sharp edges
Cut into your tender skin.
It tastes of salt
Like the balms
Cradling it.
© jsmorgane (Jan10)
Heater working noisily against
The howling wind outside.
It’s ripping at the edges,
It’s crawling in over the window pane,
Sliding between wood and glass
Into the overheated room.
The snowflakes horizontal –
Like a train streaming by
Too quickly to wave a welcome
To the passengers inside.
No tracks visible to follow
Their way into the distance.
The New York Times yield no result,
The search engine neither.
The review, bitter cold,
Was lost on the way.
The one I’m reading now is overheated,
My cheeks burn red, and I shiver.
© jsmorgane (Jan 10)
