Poetry

It seems we must learn
to anchor amidst this
storm – gather the weight

 

of spirit – link our veins
beneath the earth,

the house is silent –

 

we bend to the arc of
voice – trace our steps
while the floor notates

 

our movement,

we talk to trees – smile
at the sun – cry with

 

the rain – indulge the

veil of morning fog,

we will visit our

 

ancestors in dreams –
grieve the loss of our
village – call on the wind

 

to carry our voices,

we are skin – the
fibers of a collective

 

muscle – the densest
of bone – and we will –

grow stronger.