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Sitting outside on a spring afternoon

Listening
To the birds
Calling out the names
Of the long forgotten dead.

What flowers hold those secrets
Of the tenants before us
I ask the ants,
Trailing behind one another.
They look so wise.

How would I know
This moment hasn't happened before?
Because I swear that wind
Has touched my arm
The same way
As it did just now.

Those sweeping limbs
And hot blue sky
I will never remember.

Like the secrets
Within the buds of many unattended flowers,
This memory will disappear
Upon the earth's soil.

 

by Micayla Dunlap

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