The seeds on the ground, the stones of memory,
the dried shell of the milkweed
having dispersed its seeds into the wind,
the wind that carries Owen, brushing
against my cheek, he tells me that this shrine
is no longer needed, that he is within all of us,
no longer contained within the dried seeds
and leaves.
leave this here, grandma, for your memories,
but not for mine as I am here in the wind and
the trees, underneath the ponds reflection,
between the rhizomes of the soils.
I am eternal. 12/1/2021
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