VESSELS
Virginia Ewing
Hudson, Poet
inspired by Jan
Dun, Basket weaver
Was I born of basket weavers?
Chances are
good
Somewhere
down the line
A curvaceous, pearl-bedecked girl
comes upon
a broad-beamed, yoked drifter
She sways like willow fronds
He shifts
his load and swaggers
They cross the threshold to each other
Time
spreads forward and back
He tarries, sharing trade goods
and
language, news from the world
Soon, a babe rides in its own wee vessel
Joggled
bright-eyed, or snuggled asleep
Soft pad of forest path, roll of stones along a stream
The clean
smell of water off a fresh-caught fish
Woodsmoke and song, the sharp flap of rawhide
The shapes
of dancers, of myriad perspectives
One laughs, one shoves, one yells, one grabs
Fires leap,
fat drips and sizzles
A woven tray is passed, roasted roots, the fish
Blackened
skin crackled open to white flesh
Hands reach and fingers touch, teeth flash, lips shine
The babe,
milk sluicing down its throat, watches
The drifter shoulders his burden for the next camp
She sews
new river gems to her fringe, humming
Baskets speak to me
Their
fibers ply my being
Weaving
through and through
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