Wilderness Song

I was working in a small town, Globe Arizona, which sat at the edge of an indian reservation. My job was to paint the halls at night.

I hold the paintbrush in my arthritic hand,

the bolt of pain numbing the beast of years,

here, present, in the alien, neglected land

And I listen to her ceaseless monologue;

Nonsense or prayer I can not say.

 

She sits, erect, with her collapsed face

like a dry riverbed, ancient rivulets

revealing the wounds that once sprang

from those nearly inaccessible grags;

weathered in time's heartbreak;

 

and she sings softly, determined, solitary,

her eyes closed, alone and aloft

above her infirmity. . . . Her native tongue,

unfurled upon the stark silence,

 

Apache, like moth wings in camp light,

rise and fall in a cadence

birthed among a warrior's stronghold,

and the ruins of the Salado,

long vanished, stand nearby.

 

The air is thick with prayers,

scratched and scattered lake an eternal scroll

made of sand, particles of thought

swimming in the funnel,

as if to speak for the mystery,

 

aware that all prayers depend

on the intensity and the purity

that drives them.

The spirit's rhythm answered in moonlight,

her history nearly forgotten, her people's love

nearly erased by brutality, ignorance and greed,

the Great Spirit persevering still, stares down

upon the desiccated land, blazing

 

in the golden fire at the cinter of existence.

Copper mountains and cactus ridges, the coyote moon

and the howling -- the crack between the worlds

illuminating both shadow and echo

where the wandering ghosts whisper

to the living inanimate, cryptic messages

that secretly reveal her life's singular wish.

 

The universe, a verse, like the image of a song,

or a symphony in flux, moves so fast

none can hold it for long, even in love. . .

Yet the wild chase continues.

 

I sense the lizard, the owl, the sidewinder,

the yucca and ocotillo, all silent and alert,

to catch hold of that sacred wish.

As I quickly grow old I listen more keenly,

to the tarantula, the timber rattler, the cricket and the frog,

the beetle and the moth, and the scorpion beneath the stone.

 

Her thick hair, long and coarse, white with gray streaks,

lay in braids behind her, mapping the years.

Her rugged and beautiful face revealed nothing.

Her thin dark arms, crossed at the breast, in direct opposition

to her stout shoulders seemed to tremble before her

as if in reverence. . . . free in her cocoon.

 

Thus she sat, recalling the old songs, noble and proud,

speaking to the inhabitants of another world.

I saw her then, to totality of her,

suddenly manifest, crossing an unseen threshold,

where language is made real, transcending itself,

utterly untranslatable. . . .And discovered a people, all of us

sleepers in translation -- our words, sadly,

lost upon the screen of desires, intricate fantasies

coloring the spirit's love, each of us wishing to be understood.

 

The desert night progresses in silent wonder,

the life of its time kindled in the secret air,

unspoken presence corving the spirit's totem.

Her faded, sunken yet beautiful face

reveals the pretty, vital woman who lives hidden still,

at home among the stars.

Wild dogs yep at the yellow moon,

while the coyote unburdens its feelings.

 

I listen to the desert,

as if a moment could be measured by a name, a word, a way. . . .

She has finished her chanting, it seems, for the night

and sits quietly as if invisible. . . tapping her chest

silently. She may reside at San Carlos;

or in a card-board box; or with the Angels.

 

I move on with my work, thinking of her

sing-song love affair with the mysterious and the lost.

 

Sharp stones approach in the thorn of the day.

The spirit wanders, unhindered, among the Beings of the dawn

A coyote pretends to reveal itself: that haunting call

leaves me speechless, rooted to its echo like a cactus,

The desert moth threads together what is left of the night,

 

and we hold the mystery before us, to love it like a child, in innocent dream

of a love we were never prepared to express. . . . Yet the wild

chase continues, and once in a while. . . we too sing!

 

Wandering spirits have taken possession

of these barren desert hills, leaving behind the gift of a song

few can imagine . . .Bereft and alone,

I pause, sigh, and continue listening.

 

I listen, for this is the least that I can do.