Day 3the taste of birds in flightindigo and sinewbody and stonemigratingmovementsthat hold fleeting glimpsesinto thestirring all that wisdomof all their ancestorsthey don’t need a map to know where they are goingfor their ancestors weaved instructions within the marrows of their bonesMy ancestors hand’shave become a talisman to guide meA pillar to guide me through the waves of today’s resistanceShowing me both, how to show up and how to restThat feeling of strength they afford meIt is more than hands can holdon any given daydespite a bit of resistancefrom this dying inorganic systemModern day illusions are not enough to persuade menegate mesway meortake. me– anymoredespite their wails of storm guststheir desperate hope to turn our grief into saltthey can not have meNor can they have these tears turning solidfor my ancestors hands worked hardto get me preparedfor this very momentHow many fires they kept through the nighthow many seeds they collected every fall trusting that the soil would thaw to plant againHow many moments they thought ‘this is the end’Their love is woven into the creases of my own handsso that I may cast the seeds of this momentcoated in my own resiliencefor the next generationsthat which isn’t sowedthe birds will come with knowingfor they too are my ancestors
Laura Torraco