My grandmother’s communion with the land
Is a ritual of her ploughing and harvesting
the fruits and food in the heart and spirit of its existences
She traces the landscape of our genealogy
Of the land that gave birth to me
To her
To us
With her hands which are the color of dark soil
They are wide open with the art of lifelines on her palms
racking and sifting the soil’s particles
to make way for the seeds to be planted
and rooted in depth of our marrows and existences
As if she is saying should we ever to get lost and confused in this life pulsating journey
We will find ourselves in the food of this earth
While the blue ocean of the sky watches over us
With it galaxies
as we work the earth
This will be our healing
My grandmother stands steady and firm on the land
While the wind sings from a distance
She mirrors the trees that surrounds her
They wave their leaves in worship of her
Of the land
This is her church to me
This is her communication and connection to her humanity
Teaching me that the land is one with me
My history
and pre-history
And it is our compost and compass to navigate
our growth