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(Poem by Wendy Howe ) On a cliff the morning wind feels brisk combing a fleece of white blossoms, parting a sea of Hebrew hair. I will not twist grace into a shawl that ties at the back of my head and drops its long ending before the sky. I am a song lasting the moment, a glance, scent or hand print that will fade but cast its mood of defiance. My tribeswomen say all hills on the western shore belong to them, to their families. But, I say the land belongs to the land -- limestone and grass grape vines and lemons lizard and hawk. And I know woman is not a stretch of linen dragging between two spools on which scholars write their guidance 
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who grips the door latch letting in or locking out this shadow called fate, this wind called the Breath of God. To know more about this poem, about Wendy Howe All Images & Poems (En) |
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