Through meadow tracks
beside the stream
which winds
from where the forest burned
my father's boot soles
yet persist
as common as the silty springs
and confident
they lead the way
to all the places
trout have been
It is as if he left his print
upon my heart
to serve as sight
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1 comment:
Dear Mr. Boughton: The last 2 lines (at least) of this poem really suck. Can't you think of something better?
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