to Ruth Stone, so old and so new
I want to hear you more, mottled
prophet of wild eyes searching air
I want to be one foot from your
stained folding chair, heavy worded
hands waving, begging, rubbing words
into your white hair and my ears
like a quiet wind blowing blue squall
stomping up and down ancient stairs
upon which we crumble and climb
into blaring white sky and fall through
a hush of soft green needles
where your words play our grooves
like a record scratching love love love
and we swear that is what we are made for
2011
in response to Ruth Stone