Alfred Kreymborg

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 shawl of her art,

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,

No destroyer,

No future thought,

Can part

Earth and this woman,

Woman and bowl:

The same shawl

Wraps them around.