Oh, Weary!

No marching for me for I have no feet.
No tears, but sometimes I can form water droplets from the dew and spread them.
My hair flutters in the leaves for it is the leaves,
And its the wind that makes me real.

Just onononon no stopping, no breathing, and time is taking my hand without mercy. Down the roads of anguish neverending. My heart beats with the dust of the road, the hooves of passerby, the girls on their horses thumping through the cottonwood. Still and always forward but never moving. This river smells of mud.

Sky high

The clouds are full of the water of life, I float there sometimes when my babies don't weigh me down as much as they usually do. The lightning charges me and I can almost feel the shaking, glorious energy coursing through my body, if I had a body.
My energy sparkles with the lightning and the glittering droplets around me are gems, not simple chemicals. And thunder, I shake, I dance, I drift on the sound waves until I am lost only in wet, energy and then the rain takes me down, down, down into the ground.

Bottom scrabbling

Weary, walking
sulking in the darkest corners of , what? I have no mind. No chill way to think at all. How am I here at all? Sometimes I hear a little wanderer and I think my children have come to find me. But how can they, they have no red scarf to cling to. No bread crumbs can lead them the crows have eaten them all. Beautiful ducks talk to the bottoms of the bosque and my children have lost their way. No, but there are no children, only me. Only me.

Fragility

I thought I would be untouched by the passings of those with flesh still. I thought the whispers of their hearts could no longer be mourned. The touching of that time to this, of their blood to lost laughter, of the thump-thump of movement throught the aether so like the halted beating of their hearts. I was wrong.
As I am the ancestor, I feel my twine about me. As I am the ancestor, I know they are about, on the other side of the world they pass and I know because the lines are strong green blue red and ancient.

Trees

I am tangled in the trees now. The birds are annoying and noisy. the wind whips me throught the leaves like they aren't event her but the bark grates on my non skin forms and sometimes I can't even feel like I am breathing, not breathing. Something. The wind and I have become one but I cannot leave with it because these green and brown branches have me tangled in their wining, cracking existance, I think they are sucking me into themselves like making me part of the trees or perhaps even trying to pull me through the sap into the rings and linse and cells of the interior itself and yank me into the ground so I can spread throught the roots and disperse into the earth. But I am not ready to disperse, I must find my children, my poor dead children, Do not take me yet mother, I am not ready.

Timeflow

Todaytomorrowyesterdaytomorrow all is the same; not one from the other creeping voices coming through. All times are the same, daynightdaynight I can hardly tell which is which. Mostly by the level of activity around the world around me not by the cycles of the sun. I think I am gradually becoming less of me and more of the world and roundings. But without me, my beating, my floating, my babies will dissappear and I can't do that they are slopping into oblivian with me for who is there to remember them when I am gone. I can see their faces and smell their smells and oh how I need to wrap my arms around my babies but where are they and how can I keep from slipping away?

River route

Am I old enough yet to be forgiven. Who is to forgive me. The Rio Grande won't. Black and brown water slugish and flowing to the end of the world. the trees are solid one minute, burning the next and I am still lost. Forgiveness tastes yellow and blue but how would I know. Only I imagine that my babies can look at me with love again but I cannot believe it.