Anasazi,
Anasazi,
tucked up in clefts in the cliffs
growing strict fields of corn and beans
sinking deeper and deeper in earth
up to your hips in Gods
your head all turned to eagle-down
& lightning for knees and elbows
your eyes full of pollen
the smell of bats.
the flavor of sandstone
grit on the tongue.
women
birthing
at the foot of ladders in the dark.
trickling streams in hidden canyons
under the cold rolling desert
corn basket, wide-eyed,
red baby
rock lip home,
Anasazi
Gary Snyder