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Since I cannot speak of fields

and broken fences where the

winds howl, I speak instead of

how we did not speak and went 

our separate ways across the 

plains; the cow grass whipped under 

the rims of our cast iron wheels,

you up the hill, and I straight 

ahead towards the Big Bottom,

four clear lines in opposite 

direction. You chose the sun

in a western window, I 

the spectre moon, you built of 

bricks, I of reeds and cattails, 

and we endured thirty years

each in our own ways of not

talking. You hired men, bought

cattle, started a ranch. I 

cleared the land, kept a bird, rocked 

on the porch. You worked numbers 

expanded, I grew into

myself. You made money, joined 

the club, became mayor, I 

worked the loom, sending shuttle 

over warp and woof, stick and 

fiber. While you threw parties 

and danced in a circle, I 

threw my carpet on the dirt

floor and walked the tree of life.