Bone of your bone,
flesh of your
flesh.
I rise
from the ashes
of your strife.
-
-
Perhaps I am thinking of my ancestors because we are in tumult. Individually, collectively, human-ly. I want to know what they survived and how because they did.
-
Do not fear the shadow side of the moon,
the double edged sword
you carry in your hand.
Feel, and never look back.
Err, and do not retrace those steps.
Stumble, and bear your scars with pride. -
“I want to know my death
makes me no less part of the tree.
That dying can be as triumphant as tragic.
I want to know that the hope of rebirth
is just a season away.” -
There were people(s) who knew intimately the spirit of the land because it was inside them. They were not separate from the beauty or terror of nature but revered it. Their stories have been rewritten, if not entirely erased but there are vestiges left behind. They are still with us. It is not yet too late.
-
Bug bitten, blistered, sun burned, scratched. Ash on my clothes, dirt under my fingernails. Dressed in spider webs and fragments of grass and petals, little souvenirs to carry with me for awhile.