Why is it I feel
at home in this place?
Is it the fact
that you were born here
and once ran wild
and free?
Or is it the fact
that here you lived.
vital, and brave
and fearless?
Is it the fact
that you roamed these silent hills
just to seek what
you would find?
Is it the fact
that you once stood
as tall as the
straightest pine?
Or could it be
said that you discovered
every nook and
cranny so cleverly hidden away?
Or could it be
said that you prayed on these mountains,
and the valleys
so late in the day?
Could it be quoted
that you forded the creeks
the streams, the
rivers and falls?
Could it be whispered
that you still imprint
your spirit upon
the left behind lives?
Or is it sadly,
because you are now buried
‘neath the mountains
and the tall straight pines,
‘neath the soil
that you loved
and the memory
stone above,
built to show
all who pass
that we are forever
entwined.
Entwined with
our memories, entwined with our past,
not here in our
futures because our futures won’t last,
without you alive
and brave and freehearted.
One day it will
be as if we*ve never been parted.
Or maybe it*s because I hold you here in this
place,
a prisoner of
memories, wishing a glimpse of your face?
It may be because
I*m just not able
To speak those
words of which I*m
incapable.
I’m just not ready.
No, I can’t even
say it,
I’m unwilling
to bid you goodbye . . .
