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.
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