The grass took it all back.
Simply sprung up when I wasn’t looking.
Five years ago, maybe six,
The dog walked that path till the grass gave up.
Brown and raw, covered in divots and a doghouse.
But that’s gone.
Lost in dandelions and yellow-tinted grass.
Now I understand it.
To dig through the earth and find a trace of childhood
Would warrant being on hands and knees,
Looking down in fascination at the hint of a dog
And the fossils of a day in late July.
by Emily Laubham
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Editor’s Note: Careful repetition of imagery builds the narrator’s understanding of the relentless nature of change, aging, and memory within this poem.
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