Avalokiteshwara
(Of Taos and Tabo)
poem and photo by Gemma Mathewson

She introduced herself as "Sunflower"
nicknamed for her favorite childhood blooms -
It was a year and two continents ago
in her Taos Pueblo workshop.
I see again sprigs of steel gray hair
twang out from the sides
of thick rimmed, square framed glasses.
Her eyes behold her retirement.
"I will go to Texas with my granddaughters,
first I will soak in the oversized hotel tub,
filled with floating magnolia blossoms."

As she speaks, one fist rotates inside the pot,
while the other flicks the tip of a brush,
a deft, swift lizard tongue, across the rim.
"Then I will bring my granddaughters
to the coca-cola memorabilia museum,
right near the bottling plant."
For theatrical emphasis she takes
a long swig from the bottle nearby.

This place reminds me of Taos.
Stupas shaped like baking ovens,
Arid smoke scented wind in the courtyard,
Heaped whitewashed cubes, adobe like.
These structures too hold artistic wonders.
Not pueblo pots, here in Tabo,
but Tibetan murals from the 10th century.

By archaeological estimation,
Taos dates from the same era,
though sacred oral history
is not shared with outsiders.

The young monk assigned as our guide
is a student of the ancient art
of tonka painting, a tradition depicting
Buddhas and mandalas on silk.
"The Dalai Lama has announced
he will retire here" he confides modestly.

Now I see two pair of glasses,
rimless and thick rimmed,
peer down from mountain ranges -
foothills of the the Himalayas or the Rockies -
They frame two pair of eyes
contemplating contentment.

As I depart I spin the 88 prayer wheels -
for hers, and his, and for my own dreams.