I can feel the earth moving underneath me,
the wind from its rotation sliding its gentle fingers
through my hair,
the icy metal smell of winter on its gentle hands.
Spinning above me swells the white woodsmoke
of the mountains, the world around me spinning
and my feet still grounded, the trees swaying
our eyes building walls into the sky.
So far into grace we fell when we made our way to standing,
and into the world we dug our hands, the soil pressing
underneath our nails.
Can you bear the story? It gives us life,
and it finds our deaths
Our bones like rocky reminders of our theft.