In the rampant rivers
that we call home
In the scrapbooks and photo books
I find myself
the mirror of the mind comes back
my childhood
in a wool poncho
on the back porch
watering pansies
feeding a bunny
a pet turtle walks
rainy summer days
our tomato stand
I pick the roses today on my walk
it all comes back
hits me in the face
like a pine cone
that finds me
as quiet rain.
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