November 9, 1995

Alas that I should die, That I should die now,
I who know so much from the Shoshone.

They will miss you,
your garments—
voluminous yards and yards
of velvet, cotton, silk,
fine and hand-sewn.

The fig puddings,
persimmon breads,
star-shaped sweets
they will miss you.

The music of Hildegard,
the teachings of the Que’ro
will miss you.
It will miss you—
the Anna hummingbird.

The woven hammock
in your living room,
the picture window,
the pond arranged,
the rocks you hauled up,
the hill will miss you.

The hairs on your head, black,
then silver, they will miss you.
It will miss you, your body,
vast and dignified.
Your redwood grove,
it will miss you.

Clear words of the crone— they
will miss you. Strong actions,
standing up, speaking out—
they will miss you. Withholding
of judgment, love of justice,
wisdom of women— they will
miss you, oh wide horizon—

Stretched across your mountain.