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Wooden Window Frames Luci Tapahonso

The morning sun streams through the little kitchen’s  
wooden panes; its luminescence tempts me to forego coffee.  
But I don’t. The dark coffee scent melds with the birds’ 
chirping along the hidden acacia. Then, a small bird 
alights on the cross of the wooden clothesline.  
Its tiny head turns from side to side, then as if sensing me,  
it gazes at me through a window square.  
We ponder each other, then remember our manners,  
and it flies off into the clean, cold air.  

My Kiowa friends say a visit from a bird 
is the spirit of a departed loved one. 
I think again of Marie, my friend, my comadre –  
the many feast days, powwows, and trips we shared.  
We cruised down Taos’s one main street, 
and rushed to Smith’s grocery for last-minute necessities,  
or Walmart for the white cylinder candles for wakes.  
We hauled huge, bulging bags to the town dump. 

Oh, sister, this entire town brims with memories 
of our long sisterhood, since our early twenties  
when we were young mothers,  
but that was in the last century. 

This quiet casita is surrounded by tall stands  
of elm and cottonwood trees, their bare, brown 
branches stark against the deep, blue sky. 

Every other week, snow falls in thin waves 
onto the flat ochre houses  
that seem anchored to the ground. 
Outside of these thick adobe walls, a stillness settles upon everything. 
As memories drift all around, I gather ingredients for a stew, 
scents of coffee and toast linger around the arched doorway,  
and the warm air in the kitchen lightens the chopping of vegetables.  
Soon, the windowpanes are damp from the simmering stew. 

All there is now, is to wait, sip coffee, and watch the snow 
fall in layers on the roofs, trees, fences, and cars.   

I am in a serene cocoon of memories.  
All our conversations and laughter are silent now.  
Somewhere north of here, dogs bark playfully,  
probably romping in the fresh snow.  
Just up the road at the pueblo, your family gathers. 
They replenish the fire, stir pots of red chile  
and place potato salad and platters  
of sliced oven bread on the table. 

Copyright © 2024 by Luci Tapahonso. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on November 28, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.

Untitled Lance Henson

Here is a place where nothing can die
Darkness that lives beneath the leaves

We bring our nights there without knowing
We bring our fear there before the singing begins
We bring our silent names there hoping we are forgiven

We bring our hands there scented of a river

We bring our prayers that hide and watch us
The landscape where we have held the loose feathers
Of a fallen bird

And awakened in the land of the unseen

Here is a place where nothing can die …

Copyright © 2024 by Lance Henson. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on November 29, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.