The trail after many years
Your feet leave pillows of sky behind,
where moss and leaves have taken rest and parted
from the story of your passing there.
Memories are all around, telling, telling.
You follow foot step stones across the bridge.
Closer, yet still they are only worn-rock reflections.
Long, long shadows with stories more than me.
Earth, her memory unjealous, has folded
those embossments many many times, deep
into odd blood white bones. And that path
wears invitingly into dust.
That which we carry, knowingly or not.
It is the deed returned to our parents' home,
where a winter memory is still somehow
surprised to find you beside.
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