My House is the Red Earth
My house is the red earth; it could be the center of the world. I’ve heard New York, Paris, or Tokyo called the center of the world, but I say it is magnificently humble. You could drive by and miss it. Radio waves can obscure it. Words cannot construct it, for there are some sounds left to sacred wordless form. For instance, that fool crow, picking through trash near the corral, understands the center of the world as greasy strips of fat. Just ask him. He doesn’t have to say that the earth has turned scarlet through fierce belief, after centuries of heartbreak and laughter—he perches on the blue bowl of the sky, and laughs.
i met Joy once. what an honor. she is so tall and graceful. beautiful ink adorns her hands and arms. what a treasure. it was a governors award ceremony and i was escorting my friend Myrtle Stedman who was also being honored. i was the one honored to be in the presence of these strong, fierce, talented women.