Each day she cards wool,
Releasing aromas of a wet lamb.
Her mind is her canvas
As her loom is the easel.

Nearby are the lowly adobe bluffs;
The hogan sits alone.
Loneliness overtakes the desert lands,
As the night crawls from the east.

She dips the wool in dyes of Gaia--
Brown, yellow, black, white, and red--
Shades of her soul-self.

She pulls the spindled threads
While intertwining them into tapestry.
Geometric pattern insignia
        The traditional desert storms:
White clouds and black lightening.

Her children only come to visit
When they need money.
They take her traditional rugs,
To sell.
They have lost her teachings and tongue.Her mind wants to reach out--
         "Please stay and talk to me, my children."
Without ears, they cannot hear.

Into the night her weaving
  comb-locks her tears
    into the collage of wool.

Hershman John

Here you can view some of Mr. John's revision notes by clicking on the image: