Whatever love or hate we hold,
bridges collapse
that joined land to land
like passion between bodies.
Street lamps vanish.
The old horse I love,
in the shadow of trees
it will lie down
too quickly.
Nobody is at fault.
I remember how the Japanese women
turned to go home
and were lost
in the disappearances
that touched their innocent lives
as easily as they touched small teacups
rattling away
on shelves.
These are the lessons of old women
whose eyes are entire cities,
iron dark lattice work
they saw and became.
In their eyes
there is silence,
red ash and stormclouds.
The quiet surprise of space
carrying the familiar shape of what it held.
This moment the world continues.
I pour coffee into a cup my sister made
and count blessings, two daughters
sleeping with open mouths
full of moonlight that ages them one day
through open windows
childhood is leaving.
Outside it is the color of Arizona.
Wide landscape of morning
where people talk, red light,
like the silent old woman
who rode beside me
long ago to the Indian hospital in Chinle.
She never spoke
but her eyes were full
with the loss of children
brothers and sisters
with the certain knowledge
that it is a good thing to be alive
and safe
and loving every small thing
every step we take on earth.