Following the path of my fore-mothers,
Coarse and soft,
Old and new,
Rose Red and pea green,
A misty dream,
Of once lived lives,
Around winter fires,
Dried out and pressed,
Fingers darting like swallows,
Trapped between white washed walls,
Methodical like a tin drum,
Until it is finished.
Inhaling in the fresh quiet,
There is yet more work to be done.
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