Charades
I sit in a chair of cedar sticks
In a cold limestone cave carved
By a drought-dried waterfall,
As three shadowed women
Who I might, might not, know
stand in the dark cave entrance,
Facing me, silent and cloaked,
And shift-dance with fluid grace
From mimed charade to charade:
Deer silent-slipping through brush;
Mockingbirds whisper-winging past;
Salamanders soft-stepping below;
And though I recognize the depictions,
I too speak no words, make no sounds,
For silence rules in this place, on this day,
A silence I welcome, the women welcome:
A respite from the noise of post-modern life;
Our game of charades will end soon enough.
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