SOMEONE MUST BE LISTENING
(note: New Mexican santeros make wood-carvings
of various santos, or ‘saints’ )
Old hot eye
hides behind a shroud of clouds
on the high road to Taos
past snow-grown orchards
into Cundiyo
where the dogs
(after nearly hitting the car)
greet me to their mountain village.
Alongside his horse,
a man with a trimmed mustache
tells me to stay on the road
to Chimayo
where there’s a church, with a room
filled with crutches.
He waves goodbye,
as the March storm grows thicker.
His golden skin and easy smile tell me:
‘If you pray to the santos,
they will pray for you.’
Carving my way
through the blizzard, praying to the santos
of the road, of the eyes,
santos of steering
and traction.
Birds flit from the roadside
into the white air.
Even the weather can not fool them
from their spring.
Arriving at the motel
to the outstretched arms of a wooden St. Francis
laced with snow,
figuring --- must have been he,
who put the birds
in the blizzard.
And someone must have heard me thinking- -
of how the santeros pray
as they carve,
of how that road was held
as a piece of wood.
* * * * *
other chapbooks
Aromas Finer Than Prayer
A Net for the Moon
Presence of Birds
Spiral of Life
* * * * *
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