In Arao

Here was bear country, ageless,

roughtailed. Before

the fall,

a crossroad guarded

by three gods, glowing seasilk.

Here, Grandmother says,

the soil grew dreams; cradled

your soul and swung it

true north.

Old hearts sing magpie

below stars bright as belief.

There were heroes at play here

and now the junction gods

are leaves spinning

down a well of stale decades.

Here are the walls the shells the

light made too strong

to survive. A threshold

made uncrossable. The charm

broken.

Those dreams shrug off their seedcoat

to rise three minutes too late, too late

when called.