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What Remains ...


What Remains …


 I wonder if part of me remains ...


entangled like twine in the reeds 

of the cattails, where the blue 

heron nested across the lake.


I wonder if part of me remains ...

In the rings of the oak tree

planted when I was born.


The creek where my Dad 

would scare every living

creature, right into my net.  


The swirls of gray and 

black satin mud I used 

to cover my body.  


The murky lake water I swam, 

to the weathered rope swing on

Huckleberry Finn Island.


Do the places we love long 

for us, as we long for them?   

I will never know.


However, I do know this –

my roots grow deep 

in that clay, reach out


like tendrils to the past, 

present, and future.  

Those murky waters 


flow through my veins, 

spill out in salty tears 

of joy and sorrow. 


The tree that was planted

just for me, the day 

I was born, 


still stands.  

Whether near or far, 

we have grown together.  


Every place, every being, 

every memory, remains …

inside of me.

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