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.
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