A bean, uncurling from the gut,
rose up, shedding clothing
and was born. A girl to her mother’s
mother’s mother’s place– for thousands of years–
a customary place, where every
rock, snow and animal
had kept its first name.
The sky, in every season was
the only book. Heads bowed
as hands worked,
dough kneaded by daylight,
baked by firelight. Each loaf had
its own ritual and nourishment.
When the time came,
when thousands of years
seemed long enough
in Disappointment Place,
pictures were taken of the house
without its colors.
The decision that
the language wasn’t worth saving
set everything adrift.
Last words, dry and hard seeds,
were pocketed and counted
*I didn’t quite make it to 30 poems in April, National Poetry Month, but I will keep at it into May (and maybe beyond),