ANASAZI
The Red Sun
Little black or red square men
One hundred hand prints
painted by those long ago
who also left mud and stone
storage houses or cliff dwellings
high on red cliffs.
Breath catches
at leaping goat hanging on cliffs
impossible to climb.
Were they painting for the Gods?
God of Wind. God of Water.
God of food that came only with seasons.
Children rush. Children climb.
To see paintings left behind.
Finding a black obsidian arrowhead
Down by Lampstand, laying on sand,
Black against red sand.
A perfectly spiked White , so delicate,
By the Monkey House under a Cedar tree.
In that exact spot to draw down eyes
On that very day feet carry close enough.
Curious. So curious about the makers
Of this perfection. People from long ago
That touch lives now.
The Anasazi. The mystery.
My breath catches.
This is my revised Anasazi poem to go in book for next Festival.
Dave suggested no I or Me. I like it. The pictures didn't come with
poem, so I used old one. I hope Cheryl gets the new version.
love this poem Anne. I think it takes your breath away. It will be perfect for the next festival. I hope you read it aloud to the crowds.
ReplyDeleteA very nice poem. I hope she gets the new version. I will never forget that black obsidian spearhead that was perfect until I dropped it on the front porch and broke it in two pieces. I still feel bad about that. I think I was in the 5th grade and asked to take it to school and promised I would take very good care of it! I don't know what happened to it after that.
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