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Old Bones
by Deborah Russell

Summer ends abruptly - more sharply than the quick,
youthful flashes of memory that flood an almost waking mind.

I have just returned from the Indian Market in New Mexico.
Sunlight breaks through the shattered, outside pane of patio glass
and clings to the door frame the same way old bones feel
the last sharp edges of seasons.

A kettle of water comes to a boil as the coffee grinder slows to a hum.
The background fills with slow, misty sounds as coffee foams and rises
to the top of the press, as I place my Navaho cup on the counter . . .

Santa Fe reappears in a pile of travel brochures:

Adobes,

Turquoise

and silver . . .

I flip pages at random captivated with the shapes and colors of earth and sun.

Falling into fall - early autumn

I remember Miriam, who posed many times for her uncle, RC Gorman.
She said he donated his estate to the Aids Foundation. She and
her husband were selling their native wares at the Governor's
Palace in Santa Fe.

Indian Market - a rug weaver spins another yarn.

I remember last night's lightening below the clouds,
over the Mesas, the moon over Longmont
and think in Adams and O'Keefe images.

I fold street maps and brochures and browse though an acquisition
of business cards and pour a second cup of coffee.

Crossing the border - dream catchers in morning light


 

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