Can you tell me what dreams
are in the deftly woven weft
and warp of pattern in wool.
Tightly bound rows resonate,
shades of gray, red, indigo;
colors gathered from meager
desert resources glow vibrantly,
pulsing with life.

Were you a shroud to cover
a mighty chief, a bridal bed,
or thrown across a galloping pony
to fly with the wind.
What memories were woven
during interminable hours
with spindle, shuttle, loom;
heroic tales retold by elders
chanting around
flickering night flames.

Can you recall the ancient stories
of warriors stalking noiselessly
through pine and cedar forests,
muscles screaming from immobility
as the stag grazes, too late
sensing the shaft of death,
sustenance for winter nights
when wolves howl.

Do you tell of long marches,
tattered moccasins,
belly contracting
with uncontrollable hunger.
Or of stoic faces burying their dead
in an unforgiving land,
wrapped in the muted hues
of patterns singing
of another life, another time.

Do you whisper of blood-red dawns --
no breath of wind
to stir dust-caked leaves,
heat broiling out of adobe walls.
Or of the black ice dusk
with only this fragment of cloth
between the frozen night
and eternal sleep.

Do you speak of the rhythm
of drums, the shuffle
of leather-clad feet,
mournful songs rising
like liquid into night skies --
resonating from cliff to cliff,
then evaporating,
like the dreams of forgotten ancestors.