Laborer

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

He was dressed
like a laborer
bending around in the yard
in working clothes.
He whistled tunes
that were classical symphonies.

I thought, how strange
he is dressed —
yet knows these tunes.
He should be dressed
in a beautiful coat like Joseph’s.

I went to the window
looking for him,
still hearing his whistling,
but then realized
I was waking from a dream;

like the Navajo holy woman
chanting under my window
that early morning.

I went to all the windows
to catch a glimpse of her,
but then realized
she was part of my dream.

Who are these people?

I think they are the healers
that repair
the holes in the universe,
the tear,
the rift just outside
my window.