Every drifting grain knows

A living memory:

its creation.


A map,

Each molecule,

Follows a pattern;

And, something grows.


Skeletons, flesh and blueprints,

She’s molding,

Into a turtle’s shell;

Pieces of history,


In those moments,

In her hands.


In each grain,

Is a traveler

From a land; no,

Part of a land,

An earthen hand

She held

In another time.


Her sanctuary,

A totem,

A metamorphic watch,

A traveler calling on travelers:

“Safety and good luck!”