she's the woman of the crazy mountains
aptly named for an adopted daughter
the snows blow fierce around her tiny cabin
buried deep in season, while inside
bark and roots tea boil in heavy scent.
just a frosted window away,
the only friends remaining
fly branch to feeder,
she paints
these, and whatever else
may happen by, be they clouds,
sunshine's shadow on the peaks
or the fox deep in hunt
but this, no one sees as no one dare
the darkness playing in the pines
where the sentry crows stand
careful watch over wonder or reason
when she makes it to town, a birth wide
is given by fear masked as respect
by those who will whisper later
to shaking heads at the coffee shop
just after she's gone
her paintings, her jewelry, her carvings,
molasses and honey, are all sold by the man
at the trading post who knows well to turn a nickle
from the lunacy he quietly admires
but never admits
she never speaks when in town
and only quietly when alone.
just a nod or a note sufficing.
if a trace of smile lingers
in her plowed field of face
it is well guarded by the eyes
which long ago stopped looking
she may have gone to Berkeley
-for a year, may have swooned to
Janis at Woodstock, and somewhere
far beyond the reach of telling
there may be a child long ago run free
she no doubt was a child herself
in a world since forgotten
and who knows, there may even
have been ideals and a God
who pretended to understand
but now another spring has come
the snows melt and run
while her tattered laundry
flies wild in the breeze
welcoming the bluebirds come to nest
in the peace of her silence
she'll die here
and no one will listen
to the song that was never sung
from this woman
adopted by mountains too crazy
to turn her away
