Monday, May 5, 2014

On a Monday

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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