WEBVTT

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Language.

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With a preface from a line--

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with a line from House Made
of Dawn by N. Scott Momaday.

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The word is sacred
to a child, language.

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I carried my baby daughter to
her bed, laid her belly down.

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She turned her head aside
and I patted her back

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murmuring a sing
song, and she fell

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asleep making small
universal sounds.

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Later she calls out
from the next room.

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I go to pick her
up, she is so warm,

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young animal movement, take
her before the long mirror,

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say rainy, rainy murmur sound.

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She reaches her hand,
meets her own hand,

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hand meets mirrored hand.

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She smiles at my mirrored face.

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What does she think?

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What is it, the murmur,
the song of a chant

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drawn out holler, deep caress
in the throat, the wind

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surging hillside ledge?

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The language of movements,
sights, possibilities,

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and impossibilities,
pure existence

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which leap into exact moments
keep being there all the time,

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static quality needing nothing
else, being its only validity

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adequate onto itself, solid.

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To know it, one has to
become a part of it.

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A word is the poem.

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Child upon hearing a sound,
here's the poem of hearing.

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Original motion of it
is complete, sanctified.

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The sphere of who
he or she is who

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is hearing the poetry,
motion of inwards,

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a drawn breath, complete
entity of sound, word

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has its own energy and motion.

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