A trail of wood, brick and mortar,
mud, bamboo, animal hide…
What remains of our homes
echo in forgotten forests,
and in fragments
beneath the earth.
Some parts are carefully salvaged
and become part
of new homes,
and of the postcard memories
of our pasts;
walls giving way to windows,
roofs giving way to the sky,
doors giving way to the day.
And, the footsteps haunt me
as they crossed borders
yet to be defined.
‘Cause the lines rose up around them
encircling them
to create an order
that only caused loss….
Can you draw a line
through a mountain
or across a lake?
Can I speak your language
no more?
Their footsteps haunt me
and walk through my blood
to tell me:
What is mine is yours.
What is yours is mine.
What is yours is ours.
What is ours is yours.
Their footsteps haunt me
as they remind me of the
seasonal
bounty
of place.
Each offering up
its best
at the right time
in kaleidoscope variety.
And, they knew it was so
and they migrated.
One place known for its
ripe berries;
another for its meaty mushrooms;
one for the best harvest of acorns
to make fresh bread and porridge,
and another
known for wild hives
offering dark honey…
Their footsteps haunt me,
their well-worn paths
disappearing
a little more
each year…
I hear footsteps
as they pile up
only to step in place at borders —
a thunderous sound —
stepping on top of each other
because they just want to
move.
They want to cross
because they remember
what it’s like
over there
at Spring time.
August 2009, written after looking at Caleb Duarte’s work
Lindsay Kolasa 