it is the clay and glaze

the tiniest ping! pop! glassy sounds
the clay vessels (fired overnight and laid out on table) make
courtney calls it talking (the pots are talking to each other)
she says it is the clay and glaze
settling in/getting used to
each other

how we speak our gratitudes
as we pass, cupful by cupful around the circle, water
how we fill the water with thanks
before we drink it
how we take care not to spill and learn with each passing
how to take even more care

in a time of dying languages
(and cultures connected to them)
there is extra magnificence
in the voice of the woman
with flowers behind her ear
who belts it out in a way that remindsme of
chavela vargas only 800 times more loud and fierce
while the hair on the fiddle bow frays in a frenzy
and the bass guitarist uses his whole body to play
and the guitarist uses his entire spirit to play
and the fringe on the light brown jacket and chaps of the spanish village folk dancers
slide and stomp and scuff along
to the songs that have been taught/gathered in pieces
throughout the region

while the bend and creak of the floor of the oldest church in santa fe if not the united states
gives (in a sway, not a break kind of way)
and lone Piñon
fills the space
our bodies
our heartbeats
with more heartbeats


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