Faces lift to the river’s silver way.
Sand skinned, eyes hold southwest,
northeast recount, a line chased deep in sky
summoning village from village, seed from seed.
Hands reach the cliff’s dimension, later will
dance the dead home.
Comes the spiral, comes life.
The serpent licks and millet will
spring, though the great fires
fade to myth.
Fifty times fifty. It was foretold.
So this house of words stands
carved from ancient voices.
Summons anew the twin stars
and the fox.
Our faces lift to the river’s silver way.
kj25oct09
