"Listen to the forest. Breathe; this is home."

When I say this to myself, I am you.

I become Daddy's footprints.

My first steps were on top of feet

with fingers held in weathered hands

before touching grass and roots.


I found faith in those roots,

in the forest that became home.

Trees, with twisted branch hands,

will still reach and pull your little girl to you.

Buried in sacred ground are familiar feet -

I fall in line with the footprints.


Embossed in clay footprints,

our memories become roots.

Dirt-caked, travelling feet

churn soil and rock back into home,

just as gritty palms hold onto you

as a wild rose garden embedded in my hands.


There are thorns in these hands,

brambles growing in these footprints

as I carry the weight dragging behind you.

My soul now bears its own tangled roots

that latch to every bleeding heart like home.

Please, help me unbury my feet.


Weeping willow, I kneel to your tattered feet.

I will pluck out all my leaves with bloody hands

to send them on a journey back home.

Easing the sorrow trampled in our footprints

is punishment for not trimming the roots.

Know that I now weep for you.

This poem is about: 
My family


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