Who Tends Her Flame
this one is old (so she tells us)
seldom ventures from her house
sees ice form on boughs
above the passing stream
marks the flight of owls
prays urgently for soldiers
for children
for the soul of a country
(she says) that damns itself
comes to her shift early
leaves late
this one dances in red
grinding lights
song flung across
a throbbing stage
guides her pen over
gaping pages
creamy coffee cold
in her forgotten cup
raises her eyes
to age-dimpled windows
tattoos the knots of Brigit
on her back
this one
toils in church offices
wrestles her child
through pain
addiction
dreams of mossy shrines
and rain-silk hills
she carries her mother
through stroke and cancer
trades stinging words
retreats into her yogic lair
to pray
jests when life tastes bitter
on her tongue
who tends her flame
women children
men
who await the unexpected
who wish for more for self
for soul for world
who linger a moment
longer than they must
who when rays of sunlight
strike slanting through shadow
see a bright eye watching
and fiery dancing feet
