VIII

When the old ache arrives again at your door 

Can you greet her this time? 

The ancestors are watching from their little peels of half frozen snow 

As you kneel in your den 

To slide off her shoes.

They are tinkling like bells 

As you bend an ear to her,

Making the shape of the willow in your childhood window-

You have never invited her so deeply into your home.

Now, breathlessly 

She is unearthing the tome 

Unbinding it from leaves of ancient paper 

The words are falling from the ash mouth of the earth 

The pages blinking open in excruciating bursts of light. 

The shape of every letter is a sharp ink figurine,

Stow-away from belly to belly collecting silence and dust in her apron for centuries, 

Now the grains are lifting up like leaves caught in a hoop of wind.

New constellations 

Somersault from First Grandmother into your round little lap....

She has been Toiling through all earth and bone-

Waiting

For someone 

To listen. 

What wisdom 

Has your orphaned shadow 

Brought before your eyes this night?

What stories 

Will you weave into the world 

With this new thread of light?