She Remembers Her Past
Her beginnings are not far away,
They are close at hand when she remembers her past.
Her body is made of the same stuff
As the turtles basking in the sun,
Sliding from the bank into the pond
At the least sign of disturbance.
Her soul remembers the sound of wind in the treetops at night,
Rustling the branches and leaves with a murmur like the waves.
Her feet are not foreign to hills of red clay,
Sending up clouds of dust while galloping down the trail.
Her hands retain the heft and grain
Of logs placed on the fire,
And the warmth of flames reaching outstretched palms.
Her eyes are the eyes of a hawk
Darting over the landscape, scanning for miles in each direction.
Her words carry the weight of ancient teachers,
Whose speech can be heard
Resounding and rebounding through underground caverns.
She follows the scents of the old ways,
Leading her out of every maze.
Her tongue distinguishes the genuine
From the artificial taste of the charlatan.
Nothing that reminds her of her true identity
Can be misplaced or driven from her grasp.
She is a creature that learns to live
In undiscovered strips of wilderness
Woven through the settled landscape.
She does not hate the present age;
She finds that it provides no nourishment for heart or mind.
Her path leads her to rest
Beside the woodland streams of deep eternity.
©2016 Michael Fraley
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