THE ARCHIVIST

There was chanting and drumming,

the unearthly earthly drone of the didgeridoo,

rattles hissing their little hymns.

There was the dancing,

the bare feet on the hard-wood floor,

jangling belt-wear,

eyes opening, eyes closing,

crow calls, growlings,

the questions, the tears, the listening,

the stories rising from the marrow,

and the yes and, yes and, yes and,

a mantra that surprised us and made us smile,

the dreams and the healings. 

All this, all this,

that spirited through the house,

and the sirens outside,

the chittering hummingbirds,

the squealing children,

the engine hacking up the hill,

all joined to the leader,

and with the carded wool,

were wound around the spindle clockwise

by the women in the corner in white,

the whorl on top looking like a medicine root—

her nimble fingers teasing the tiny clouds into fibers

her lips, her tongue, her spittle dampened

so the thread would twist into yarn,

stable and sure.

The day and all it textures and voices,

gestures small and large,

held to the stick 

like a hive to a branch.

And all around this eddy of silent subtle action,

this ancient work,

was the silver hair of the woman in white,

that moved as she rocked

like mist through the trees.