The old squaw
is one
with the old stone behind her.
Both have squatted there —
ask mesa
or mountain, how long?
The bowl she holds —
clay ritual of her faith —
is one
with the thought of the past,
and one with the now,
though dim, a little old, strange.
The earth holds her
as she holds the bowl —
ask kiva
or shrine, how much longer?
No titan
or destroyer
or future thought
can part
earth and this woman,
woman and bowl:
the same shawl
wraps them around.