Girl-Warrior was lonely For the poetry-talk of the Old Ones. They spoke in metaphor, A way of language that alerted her imagination To the presence of mystery Where there was always a light on in the mica windows Of her soul’s house Where knowledge did not depend on words Of faulty human languages. In one of time’s rooms, a place she liked to visit She played, as all babies do, with sunlight on her fingers. She was a tiny weaver, a dreamer. The Old Ones always gather around the baskets Holding the little ones, Admiring them, reminding them Of their legacy of honor and beauty Each one of them,
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