FOOTPRINTS

 

Outside, the flute wind blows song

through our desert hollow

while an old woman chants coyote prayers.

Spontaneous percussionists scrape and tap

at the windows and rain gutters

mesmerizing improvisations

around the two melodies.

Someone dances storm themes

in the husk-light of the naked moon.

Their silken footprints

near my sill.

 

I used to twirl in the dark

late at night,

alone. Yes, only then. Alone,

arms flung, legs brazen.

I havenít spun inside the velvet

of eveningís silence

for years now.

Though, in the late hours, I still hum

my own evocative purling

like stars

stirring up the emptiness.

 

I move from window to window, look out

into the slant of earth against sky,

find no one

but the silver ghosts of shadows

flickering like candles

exhaling last fulgent breaths.

 

 

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© Copyright 2005 Susan M. Botich