The Gathering
Driving into the canyon
in the eggshell blue light,
I saw them:
An amber string of beads
against the satin underbelly
of an orange-rose dawn,
Coming closer now,
looming,
each one a distinct presence
So softly draped
in moleskin-colored scarves
of burned out velvet;
unexpected grace.
Only foothills
lacing the horizon?
Or a gathering
of generations of women-
remnants of countless tribes-
fused wordlessly, indefinably together
by the unassuming dignity
of love
that has overcome.
ÓChere Berman, 1997
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