Mother Ancestor

I.
Her skin stretches over skull—
papery thin, parchment—
wisdomed.

II.
Her hair, long, silver—
strands,
white with knowledge.
Waves of unspeakable things—
she kept her sweetness—
despite.

III.
Eyes—
a socketed—
discernment.
Weeping tiny white flowers,
ancestral medicine,
down cheek and chin.
I watch her—
she draws me in.

IV.
She asks me—
“Are you scared?”
I tell her no, not anymore.
Her tears flower as she tells me—
“You can be, but it changes nothing.”

V.
Her staff—
gnarled and veined—
a path of uprightness.
My ancestor—
she wore red.

Moonlight Spiritus