White hair,
long,
braided down your back,
or flowing freely,
catching the whispers of the wind.
Face marked
by the feet
of at least two dozen crows;
the more, the wiser.
One whose count
of sunsets remaining,
no longer outnumbers
those sunsets seen.
And yet,
And yet...
Is that little girl,
in her yellow rain boots
helping frogs cross the road,
not an Ancestor
to each and every tadpole
born that spring?
Or the young man,
who adopts
a pregnant dog
from the local shelter,
not an Ancestor
to innumerable generations
of pups to come?
Is the farmer
who decides against using
toxic chemicals,
not an Ancestor
to every plant and seed,
ant and bee,
living on that land?
And the elementary school class,
who spent their Sunday
cleaning up the beach,
are those children
not Ancestors
to every inch of life
that sand supports?
Age does not denote wisdom;
Length of life does not equate
to depth of experience;
Ancestor is not Elder.
While I hope to live
long enough,
and well enough,
to be considered both,
I can be an Ancestor
now, here, today,
without needing to have raised
any babies of my own.
What kind of Ancestor do I want to be?
One who loved this world fully,
and lived my life,
in my own way.
xx
