We’ve all dashed so
far from where we started
I hardly remember
youthful farsightedness is easily
lost on the duties that fill our fingers
The clouds that clot our sight
do not mean we live in a fog
The white black that consumes our
plodding phases is not our
I have to believe that something of seventeen
still lingers, although she pains me with
her adolescent optimism, I return
hoping she wasn’t wrong
that there is beauty in the stacked stones
along the path -that there is a path indeed,
mountains to be scaled and conquered
that the world is still ours
12/20/2015 10:10:00 am
Hey read all your poem here they are really good and amazing. I loved the poem 'OURS' and I forgot the other name. Hoping read more.
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Erin is a doula, writer, mother to men, and teacher on permanent hiatus. She loves how writing connects us and thrives on the bright edges of human experience.