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We go walking through this,

by John Walton

Rose Creek Preserve

on this trail of 

grass and leaves, 

picking up memories 

along the way of 

aspen trees and 

other trees, holding hands because

it’s true that nothing goes to waste,

but dreams. 

We go walking 

through this,

deer avoiding us,

crossing logs 

over the vein of a creek,

asking questions, 

a cluster of white butterfly 

mulling through a patch 

of purple asters.

We go walking

up these prairie slopes,

holding hands, again,

through wild ponderosa 

branches, memories 

coming back like rain 

around us.

We go walking 

down these prairie slopes,

calling it all a moment 

within a memory 

before saying we 

must be confused,

the path beginning 

just behind us.

We say it again, that we must be confused. 

Then we believe we’ve only misunderstood.

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