Bones, salt of the earth.
Creaking, bending with proficiency.  Cracked, layered like shale, a tree ring of our histories.

Deep aches of memory, starting at the marrow and echoing as a drop of water, through our fibers.

Our bones may clamor for the grave as if meeting an old friend, but Not Yet we say as we bend and move. We dance amongst that grave dust, kicking it upward in salute to the wind.  Our smile is wide and unafraid as our arms circle and reach out towards the pines.  Our toes can still curl and our matriculated fingers still feel the midnight air as we dance, at our own speed, beneath the moonlight.

Fragile and weak of body, but transcendent in mind.  Head tilting side to side, eyes cloud as we dance, dreaming visions of the curtain.  It billows, but is held firmly by two stone pillars.  The pillars stand tall and tower over us with a gaze of reverence.  One foot caresses the translucent fabric of that veil, toes tickling the fibers.  We dip one solitary toe into that silver mist, feel the ripple of a shiver, grin and pull it back out.

We will cross over soon, but Not Yet we say as we dance gaily around it's perimeter, body and mind at one with the nighttime air.