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.