Reflections of 1497
Pain acknowledges
the bereft tone
in which we were, are.
Sounds become slivers
into our alone,
picking and needling us
from our abandon
awash in the away.
We languish in its wind,
for its current leaves us
nowhere,
and altogether
everywhere,
on particles of a conscious sleep.
A moment in time arrives
and all the pieces fall together,
like shards of a broken mirror,
reassembled reflection, complete.
Turtle Island,
she kept coming.
She never left
though we were asleep.
Our reflections,
broken, spread out,
fell down,
climbed back,
again,
and again.
Pain acknowledges
the bereft tone
in which we slept.
Too many footprints
marred the earth.
Spirits came and left,
but the footprint
embedded its stain.
We climb back.
The climb is steep
We climb to the moment,
awake and alive,
reassembled
with reflections of 1497.
Gathering up the pieces,
we meet, in tact
to see the mess left
on earth's floor.
We scramble to pick up
what has been torn,
left undone,
and yet too well done.
And as we stand
as we were
once before,
we are different
we know
and understand
what that footprint took,
and what is needed
to be whole.
LauraLee K. Harris
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