Stones gathered on chiseled limestone
counting souls who have gone before me.
Coins on headstones, flags on tall poles,
but not so tall as the mighty sycamores.
The cool brisk air broken by a warm
cup of tea to sip from.
Pouch of lavender takes me back in time
to wood floors, dirt floors, glass bottle windows.
I look out on the valley, low water
as the land suffers from drought.
Crying to Mother Earth to bring the rains,
to color the leaves of autumn.
Sisters gathered in purpose of words,
infinite love with cosmic relations
as we, the daughters of time
bring forth the future of the stars.
Written while sitting on the Blacksmith Cabin's porch swing during an Indiana University, Center for Rural Engagement, session for girls and women of all ages with author and professor Catherine Bowman.