TOUCHSTONES

She walks the restless land,
the weight of generations upon her soul,
her heart descending like the autumn leaves
fluttering upon the gold-tinged brilliance
of the funeral fire,
the air electric with voices of ancient spirits
communing with the recent dead.
Along the winding banks
where mysteries of generations unfold before her
she bends to touch a rock
worn smooth and flat by the waters of time
—a grinding rock, perhaps, or a tool to work the hides.
She holds it in her palm like an offering,
studying its black and ochre artistry
played out in dramatic swirls,
pondering its history, the people it has served.

Her father laid to rest today,
his shell reclaimed by Mother Earth,
and soul released to rise again,
and yet remains within this place,
an eternal song of renewal.
It is here she can always find him.
It is here he belongs,
to this land and its people—
lives tethered by unerring bonds
and links that course her native veins.
And the specter haunts her as she boards the train
to take her back to the concrete canyons,
a million miles from the valleys of wisdom.