the year of the seeker

the too-quiet, too-flat body of the
brown newborn lamb
smoke rising from grandmother and grandfather’s house
when i return from
pulling tarot cards in slight wind and strong sun
amongst the curve of boulders and
the black/dark of caves
skirt rippling in sun-wind and
grandmother’s skirt rippling in the sun-wind
as we walk towards each other on the path
between corral and house and as we meet
she opens her mostly-bone arms to me
in the shape of a hug
the best part about playing cards
and memory with bessie tonight is how we
eye-glimmer laugh
across vinyl table-clothed table
the second best part is
how we clear the table and put the dishes
in the kitchen but wait til after we play
to wash them
how the cards, spread in the entrance
of a mini-cave tell me this
is the year of the seeker
pot of chicken stock placed
on cast iron surface of
wood burning stove
late night snacks on the mesa trish says
have nothing to do with hunger


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