We locked up our wisdom into our bones
And swallowed the keys
They sank in our rivers of blood
And we forgot the maps
Because we had to forget the mysteries
To keep them safe.
We wove our hair into brooms
And swept over our paths
And then burned the earth with our rage
We didn’t teach our children
It was the only way to protect them, we thought.
But in them we planted seeds, seeds and keys
And told them stories and riddles and songs
With no roots, just tangled threads
That would take years to unwind
Just enough time
For the rains to fall again
And put out the fires.
For the dams to break
For the rivers to flood
For the paths to be walked again
For the soil to breathe.
And as the old bones crumble
Deep beneath the rubble,
We find we’ve always had the keys.
Our stories and our maps
Our paths are revealed to some
And the seeds grow again.
The threads are unspun
And woven again
– Amara Bronwyn Hollow Bones