IN THE VALLEY

The slope of ancestors’ stories in the soft dip down, as if clinging to the earth was the only constant in their wandering. To herd or be herded. My own ancestors, living, so short the tie, calling me down the road to “home.” That is where I see you. In the valley all hills are noticed. Each ridge a marker of elseness. Somewhere else to be called, someone else becoming. Your ancestors are my mountains, historic landmarks demanding only awe. Each ridge and bend a reminder we are living history, reincarnated stories of past dreams and traumas begging to tell a new story. Your face, your face holds thousands.