spring ritual

brown leaves crunch

and scattered under your boots

my sandals

as we search for morels

dry-land fish

near black pond’s rim

where a faded sign reads

“no fishing”

twenty year-old jar

lies half leaf covered

no mushrooms peep

through, only bomb shell rocks

and brilliant violent

woodland irises

still

we walk, brother and sister

talking of yesterday

remembering parental wisdom

stories, prophecies of long ago years,

breathing in sweet locust

for the moment

and forgetting

tomorrow.

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