For her rug, for her hands, for
the sunabove and
for her mother who taught her the
words so long ago...
Each day she cards wool,
Releasing aromas of wet lambs.
She sings her song slowly for her sheep,
For her rug, for her hands, for
the sun
above and
for her mother who taught her the
words so long ago...
"House made of dawnMásáni, Grandma's hogan sits alone
House made of evening light
House made of dark cloud
House made of pollen..."
She soaks wool in the eyes of Spider Woman,
The weaver of creation, weaving together
Brown, yellow, black, white and red--
Shade of her soul-self.
She pulls spindled threads
Intertwining them through the web-loom
And the desert storms are caught
Within the geometric patterns,
White clouds and black lightning and water beetles.
None of her twelve children ever returnWithout ears, they are like prairie dogs,
Only when money asks them to.
They come to take her hard work, her beauty.
"In beauty it is finished, thank you, creator."
Coming from limbo beyond theInto the night her weaving comb
Rainbow's blessings
They smile as payment for robbing her
And quickly return to their burrows
Far to the cold north, Los Angeles and Phoenix...
Each night she cards wool,
Releasing the aromas of wet lambs.
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