Apr 16, 2021

“Who were you?” —I ask the younger me.

Valley sky. Like a steel sword, silver.

Valley floor. Like a tilled field, rich soil.

Valley man. I haunt the creeks and woods.

Valley poems. Words growing like corn.

Like sunflowers.

And I am here for the harvest.


“Who were you?” —I ask the younger me.

“You, but not completely,” he says.

I didn’t want to look at him anymore, you know.

I didn’t want to hear his words, as foolish

As I already knew him to be.

Late afternoon. Dust mites

Were floating in the softly sunlit room.


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