She wears the years across her width of her face,
furrows marked by her ancestor’s sins.
The bend of an ancient knuckle on hands that hold, churn…
that caress and reach silently into the night for tender touch.
She smooths the wires that grow where hair once did.
She wears the scent of April cherry blossoms, silent even then.
She feeds on broth of boiled bones, bring now the warrior to stand guard
against the storm.
She bears no gems, no furs, no metals. She knows nothing of where they lie.
She leaves rice and smoke in the odd chance the gods will hear her rustling, the panic and flailing.
She used to be able to feel the earth give way under her feet, watch paper dance in the wind,
the drums in the distance only she could hear.
The promises of sunrises, endless skies. A bounty of fish, dry coal for a fire.
The hope of small feet, the honor of ushering death through the front door.
The freedom to conjure an ancestor, to wear her cloak of flowers and call upon the
furies in the mountain to dance with her drums and lead her to the water’s edge.