My Mothers (Section 5, p71)

They are all here:
Men. And women. Big, strong women. Their cheeks
rough like rain-lashed autumn apples.
At dusk they water animals of peaceful pastures.
Later they wade into a tepid lake and hoist heavy
nets from the bottom. Warmed water drips off
their elbows.
Bursting buds call loudly in the forest, in the earth
the future harvest swells — — —

And they fold their hands and pray to a distant
God.
The moon rises. They are like silent spruces —
with unending shadows.
When they step over the high threshold, their copper
ornaments ring, striking against each other.
Black kettles heat. Mossy logs sweat sap. In a dark corner,
gray-haired woodland tales and the cool of night meet.

Now their hair — thick linden honey. Feet broad, and
breathing fragrant with sweet calamus.
      _________
Holy, Holy Almighty — every
conception is without stain.

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