image from poetess' personal scrapbook
They come softly~ not with footsteps, but with the faint shift of air. I feel them in the way the light rests on my shoulders. My ancestors move through the marrow of me, lifting in a sunbeam, They do not speak, yet something in me listens~ a pulse, a pull, a quiet knowing. I am made of their courage, their spirit and unfinished prayers. I feel them gather~ a circle of presence, a lineage of light.
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