I can feel you, Father, Mother, in my crown and down my arms, in my jaw bone and warm against my temples.
I can taste you in my food, varied and rich.
I can smell you on the flowers and the rotting soil that gives them height.
I can see you written on machine of my fleshy pulsing heart.
I can hear you, even through the din and sin of my raucous thoughtscape, the grandmother drum to my long long dance.
