Come back, return! It is not yet the time to wander,
Come back, return! It is not yet the time to wander.

When it is your hour, then you will be called,
When it is your hour, then you will be called.

Come back to the village, return to the mountain—
Her trees invite you to climb into their arms!

Come back to the mountain, return to the stream—
Its musical bubbling, its sweet and cool waters!

Come back to the stream, return to the fishponds—
The fish are swimming in silvery streaks!

Come back to the village, return to your home—
Your children await the softest lullaby!

Come back, return! It is not yet the time to wander,
When it is your time, then you will be called.

THE VILLAGERS SING OF THE WOMAN WHO BECOMES A WAVE WHO BECOMES THE WATER WHO ...

THE VILLAGERS SING OF THE WOMAN WHO BECOMES A WAVE WHO BECOMES THE WATER WHO BECOMES THE WIND

she weaves words into the fabric of sky
she knows the stars, an ascension of pearls
she is witness, keeper of starlight
she weeps silver tears when the moon is full

she knows the stars, an ascension of pearls
she is mother, the deepest ocean
she weeps silver tears when the moon is full
leaf storm, rice terrace, color of midnight

she is mother, the deepest ocean
sunrise, black pearl, blood, and serpent
leaf storm, rice terrace, color of midnight
leaping, spinning, fingertips skyward

sunrise, black pearl, blood and serpent
with tobacco and fruit to appease the silence
leaping, spinning, fingertips skyward
she is a silver-winged bird in flight

with tobacco and fruit to appease the silence
the medicine woman prays for salt
she is a silver-winged bird in flight
she has marked her own flesh with thunder

the medicine woman prays for salt
riverbed fragrance, night herons diving
she has marked her own flesh with thunder
here, the curve of a warrior blade

riverbed fragrance, night herons diving
she is witness, keeper of starlight
here, the curve of a warrior blade
she weaves words into the fabric of sky

EVE SPEAKS 2

EVE SPEAKS 2

One by one the stars go out, and I wonder how you will navigate to this place where I am standing. To some, this would be cause for prayer, though I have never known how to pray. Sad little pocket of silence here, where my shadow no longer resembles me. Here, within my dreamweaving, it is always autumn, and old men and trannies dance to the feedback and treble of someone else’s distant music. The walls spill their electrical wire and fuse boxes, and one by one the stars go out. Each dying flicker there, and the oars of your boatmen grow silent. Swishing water against hulls become a whisper. I watch these wordless deaths, I light a beacon, and let the oarsmen resume their song.