Through a desolate wood she walks at summer's end
She's seeking a reason for birth, a genealogy of grace.
She slips through fragrant drifts of blood-red leaves,
Where sprays of roses entomb solitary stones.
She's searching for her homeland beneath these mounds,
Beneath generations of granite carved by ice and hand
Waves of wildflowers splash against the rotted frames
A hundred, hundred years ago this was his home.
Did he brave ice-born storms to come upon this final place?
Did he wait here, with bloodied, stone torn hands, longing for a single voice?
She weeps before the ruins of what his young strength built
She mourns the sweat and the sorrow of his solitary life
And maybe this is her beginning - not a genealogy or a country
Not a language. Just a hard dream of living
And the courage to carve her children's children from a womb of stone.
(c) 2001 J.L. Stanley