NATIVE WOMAN’S MOON DREAMS

   by Leslie Clark

                         
I sit and ponder the fissures in the face of the moon,
Dark lines criss-cross her brilliant face
Like the folds of aging skin
In the countenance of my elders.

But I am young.
My blood hums with the voices of the night.
Rustles of dark-loving creatures,
The coyotes’ plaintive song  

It’s been a good day for my craft
I’m surrounded by curved clay vessels
Marked with symbols of my heritage.
I have created these, and now I wait.

For him to return
from the hunting trail-- 
his journey’s end
Home to me, and together we will ignite
The warmth of sun in this cool, clear desert night.