By Rhonda Fitzgerald-Hunter
The earth remembers in ways we have forgotten.
Every stone carries the weight of forgotten footsteps,
every grain of soil once belonged to something living.
Civilizations rise, they carve their names into pillars,
and yet the wind erases them with patient hands.
From the ashes of fires long gone,
new seeds root in silence.
From the silence of the grave,
new voices are born into the sky.
Perhaps we are never lost,
only scattered —
bone to soil,
story to wind,
breath to starlight.
And when we look up,
the constellations whisper back:
you were always part of us,
you have always been home.
Rhonda Fitzgerald-Hunter 