Vermont Woman
I am the blue-green
edge
Between the cloud and
mountain.
The fog rolled from the
dark valley,
Pressed against summer
hills.
The streams running
silver over their stones, bearing
Light and clearness to
the smallest grain of color
Between the shadows of
slim, quick trout.
The quiver of bird song
in afternoon meadows where
Seeded blooms droop in
the yellow haze and the fox
Smiles over her
shoulder as she moves away,
Weightless and tail
straight.
I am people in
celebration, music and dance
Under thunder rolling,
warming the ground
While warm sheets wash
winter grey,
I am plowed land,
Fresh-cut hay in
windrows,
Tender corn in clean
aisles,
The pear tree’s
swarm, a fuzzy, golden cell of the hive.
I am the face of a
milkweed flower,
Pregnant with vulva
mauve mandalas.
I sleep naked under the
rising moon,
Taste grain in the
field, warm and nutty,
Stand where the
continent slides under the sea,
Salt on my tongue.
I am my grandmother’s
hands,
Soft and brown and
wrinkled--working hands and holding.
I am the flowers they
have grown, the food made, the babies
Held against her,
humming and rocking to their fiddle touch.
I am the clean sweat of
your labor
And the sigh in your
sleep.
The ache in the throat
of sorry,
The calm of death after
a struggle
And the warmth in the
crease of an infant’s neck.
I am the curve of a
girl’s cheek,
The tug and red of her
menses,
The soft, dark night
she walks.
I am the young man’s
dreams
And the old man’s
memories,
The liquid of tears and
desire
And of milk letting
from the turgid nipple-
As smooth as sex and
warm skin and
The shine in a lover’s
eye.
I am a bridge, a white flag of surrender,
The wrinkles in the
damp sheets of lovers,
The pun in your dream,
your first step,
The magic of
dragonflies over the pond,
The gravel in your
knee,
The ragged edges of
anger
The question behind
hatred and fear.
I am the soil of blue
slate under the mountain
And the yellow
sandstone of lake cliffs.
I taste of grit and
strength,
Smell of new bread and
death,
Rich for corn and
wheat,
Thin for juniper and
cedar.
I am the cattle and
deer and round woodchuck.
I wear rows of elms
like a bone necklace,
I am the sweet in a bud
of red clover
And I am its long,
noduled roots.
I am the choreography
of a mare and her foal.
The dance of the crane.
I am the tang of
raspberries
And the bitter of pine in the darkling wood.
The faded periwinkle of
the cabbage moth
And the sting of a
wasp
The heart-spring of
peepers in May
And the insistence of
cicadas in August.
I am the up and down
rhythm of the French in my grandfather’ voice,
A guide for my
daughters, a sister to my friends,
The first woman of my
sons
I run through the
chambers of your heart
And flow in the rhythm
of the vein.
I am the brave in a
mother’s good-by smile and in her unshed tears.
I am the wish for you
to walk in light,
Holding the hands of
one another,
Tasting joy and feeling
what there is to feel.
