Sunday, May 13, 2012

Sitting on the porch,
listening to the rain
and an owl who
hoots softly
lonely in the woods.

Earlier walking the road
to the where the old house
used to be,
looking for fossils
and arrowheads
we find a flint,
small and broken tipped
perfect for pocketing.

We sat at long tables
laughing, joking
eating food
that was our history,
recipes that live in our heads
not in books
written on dry paper
in ink.


And around us
ghosts of memories,
of those gone on before,
living again in our hearts and words.
Presences real but unseen,
love flowing, timelessly
between generations
gathered on the land
where it all began.

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