I am nowhere indigenous. Born in the midwestern United States, I have moved through many other regions. My genetics are blended and confused, my blood relations scattered. Even within the city I have called home for 45 years I belong to no single neighborhood. No land or culture claims me as their own.
roots of tangled earth and air
I occupy each season
refilled, resampled, revived
For Frank’s haibun prompt at dVerse, considering our relationship to the word indigenous, as we celebrate both Columbus Day and the native peoples who inhabited this land long before Columbus discovered it.
Every year fall foliage surprises us with its clichés. Fibers yellow on the edges, becoming brittle and brown. Scarlet fire burns itself into a colorless ash.
Memory preserves the departed colors, waiting in darkness.
We have been to this place many times before and yet still it catches us, wheeling us with the wind. Time contracts, translating itself into a hidden refuge, a seed to hold and protect through the long nights.
Life turns inward now–
sleep opening like the wings
of migrating birds