The stories she holds are plenty.
You can see them
running through her mind,
spread across her body,
you can feel them when she moves.
They are stories of the land,
where the wild edges hold
the greenest of grass,
and blackest of dirt.
They are stories of the water,
where she returns to her body
and the reverence for her own life force.
They are stories of the wind,
as it graces her skin,
wielding her essence into everything
that comes next.
And yet the most profound stories of all,
are those of her heart -
cultivated by all the lifetimes
that pass through her each moment.
All these stories
could never leave you bored,
nor turn you cold.
All these stories,
you can’t own them,
nor tell them.
All you could ever do is hold her,
hold her through them.
For my grandmother's, Maren Sibylle Lefsrud & Olive Irene Wold,
and to all the women that came before, and after them.