We are born into a story. Layered threads woven deep

trail tracks on maps unread.

We gaze in wonder at what we are supposed to know.

We sleep through symbols, reluctant, yet challenged

to make them our own, grappling with what to keep,

or give away, as we meet our birthed-in story

always behind us, never forgotten, Earth-bound,

hidden or rearing up as needed, unforeseen,

while we gaze in wonder as what we are supposed to know

beckons - a hybrid flower opening to thick-fibred centuries,

threads of always has been, and a ready cache of seed

as we gaze in wonder at what we are supposed to know

about other stories yeasting; muffled murmurings

through time invite belief, disclose how differences leak

the story that gives us birth, may push us           to speak

before the light goes out. Or else rejoin the motherlode

unknown. Listen. Hear the faint, waiting hums that heed

disembodied stories strung juicy deep, ours to be born into 

when we gaze in wonder at the little we have come to know.