Reconfiguration in seven textures

My bloodline forms road markings

as I walk through the village.

Rough senses of rawness and rage

and a rare resilience

creep across my mind

as I seep into squishy woodland.

Becoming one with the trees,

the pain of my forefathers

and foremothers is calling.

Their bristly struggles are leaf-

piano sounds that strangely palpate.

Messages for now

and futures in waiting.

Yellow is my Goldenrod

mother, swaying with answers

Her feathery freshness makes

me smile at the woody fringe.

I’m moved to grounded, grateful

days that do not gloat.

Flowers adorn the floor’s green with Grace.

Unbroken, soft and friendly.

Then, reaching the cricket pitch,

the steel bravery hits me.

Ancestors are hard sternums,

pulling me to the wicket.

To the comforting, bald grass.

Here, I manage discomfort.

The spoiled, slippery trap becomes a smooth prophecy.