Sarabande

by Eileen Howard

Plant your maize. Water it well.

Have some children.

Time will tell.

Nurture may yield a bumper crop

or pestilence may descend.

On the vagaries of nature

you always can depend.

Fling up the edge of your winnowing cloth.

Toss and the dross drifts away.

Pick up your pestle

Grind the grain, the kernel,

the fruit of your labors.

Then you can take

some bread to your neighbors.

Dance dance the sarabande.

Wave your winnowing scarves.

Let the wild color and movement

surround you, embrace you.

Your cares float away.

You are old, infirm, unsound.

Still, you can dance in your soul.