Ancestors

I can’t hand you a map

or tell you where they are.

But in the bald high mountains

a heaviness about life eases

as their light returns talking

like Moses and Elijah 

in fog rising the way

ordinary people do when

no one expects them to shine,

or be useful, or carry invisible burdens.

And even if they’re not still loved

here they continue to whisper,

“Move slowly.

 Be stillness.

 Live silence 

 Embrace simple.”