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Kathy Dingus



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 . . .