SNOW
My mother's land is white with snow.
The sandwash and the waterhole,
the dry grass patches and the
cornfield hide away
under the white blanket,
under the snow blanket
that covers the land.
The air is filled
with falling snow,
thick snow,
soft snow
falling,
falling.
Beautiful Mountain
and the red rock canyons
hide their faces
in snow clouds.
The wind cries.
It piles the snow
in drift banks
against the poles
of the sheep corral.
It pushes against the door
of my mother's hogan,
and it cries.
The wind cries out there
in the snow and the cold.
My mother's hogan is cold.
Snow blows down the smoke hole.
Water drops on the fire.
The wet wood smokes
and keeps its flames to itself.
The sun
has not shown his face
to tell us
what time of day it is.
I do not like to ask my mother,
"Is it noon now?" or
"Is it almost night?"
because
she might think
I wanted it to be time to eat.
She might think
I wanted food.
