We reach back in the generations,

untangling threads,

and wonder over familiar terrain,

hunting fruit-bearing trees never noticed

before.

But before

was when the wood was too green,

flowers knocked off by freeze,

bees unable to work their magic–

harvest waiting for the right season.

I wander the woods

after sharing those stories again and again,

ones asking unanswerable questions,

sensing the complexity of things.

I did not know,

until now,

I am the winged one

returning to the grove

to hum between pink petals

and play my part

in the fecundity of my ancestors.

Ancestors

whose bones move beneath this skin,

whose bones make blood

carrying me to the end of my days.