by Pat Poland
As I glide my way into the past,
history ... names.... send me back to my great-grandmother.
She stands 'cross the abyss beckoning,
"I am here, great-granddaughter."
Mist floats across the gentle stream.
I see her fingertips reaching to mine.
Forever ... it seems, to go on by centimeters of time.
Names so familiar.... I've used them before.
Places.. forgotten, resurrected on the distant shore.
"I am here great-grandmother,"
I call back through the misty veil.
Page by page ... leaf by leaf, like rich compost heaped
through the years, ready to use, seeded, and fertile.
I search for clues... a birth ... a death ... a will...
a grave marking what was, yet is
my Native heritage.