In those days of long conflict at last winding down,
quiet lives were played out by strong women in canyons
with browned fingernails–perpetually stubby–whose
hair and skin smelled of burning wood.
Air cracked
with their laughter, for they were the steadfast ones
cultivating peace, sewing wool onto war, muffling it.
They
squatted on ticking to birth new freedoms or communed
at a cabin in overalls—no shirts—suckling their infants
in honeyed conversations of bread and spirit;
they’d
tempered their anger wielding rakes and axes,
and harvested their claims with backs against sun.
One might ask, sipping tea, Shall we swim in the river? Or
fly amongst stars? While cotton-clad little ones built
dreams in the dirt, these women watched on.
Pots gurgled on stoves, men hovered in waiting.