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,

Living,

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!”

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