poem-

A darkness follows each shadow
filing remanence of selves collected from cover
While smiles and laughter from the mouths
of the innocent echo on without notice

-M. Taggart

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A little something

I’m from mud. Happily I tell this to anyone who asks. There was a deep raving across from our house. At the bottom of the ravine was a brook. In Spring Time the brook rushed with the melting of the snow. Mud was everywhere and I loved it. The sun rose higher each day and I stayed outside with it as long as I could.

This past Friday I drove back home. I saw my old ravine. I saw faces that held strongly to their belief that only they know what they know and the same bitterness hung about their hue. I don’t miss that. Not one bit. But, I do miss the landscape. I pulled over, a short mile away from my old ravine, and took a picture of a Bull. I walked through the wet grass and draped my arms over the fence to eliminate it from the photo. The Bull stood and huffed at me. I was lucky to have such a view at an early age. And, I knew it.

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poem

Our truest sights need not be spliced,
as ashes share no accent; only spreading
shadows over what was, while we keep
our secrets stored in perfectly managed
images resting until needed.

-M. Taggart