My legs are listening.My legs are listening
to Grandmothers speaking
softly through a dream
in a small round kiva
of smooth stone
radiating with warmth.
They know my pain.
They care about my legs.
They say the warmth
will do me good.
My legs are listening.
My legs are warm.
My legs are listening.
My legs are warm.
My legs are listening to
the compassion of women. My legs are listening.
My legs are listening
to the grief of women.
My legs are listening.
My legs are listening to
the endurance of women.
My legs are listening
beneath the deep quiet
of new snow.
My legs are listening
above the gray of the sky
into the red of the sun
filling my mind with light.
My legs are singing with
the chickadee’s song.
My legs are moving
around the circle again
with a warrior’s resolve.
My legs are rooted
in the rhythms of the earth.
My legs are reaching
past their limitations
into remembrance of a dream
in which they stood tall~
two strong cedar poles
at the entrance of a tipi lodge.
~Diana Ramsdell Newman 1/02/2010
