My Self

When I was young I hid myself
and tumbled down many roads.
Hot, dusty and tired I came to rest
in the quiet, green shade of middle age.
Roots grew down into the soil
and tentative leaves appeared.
No longer hidden, my self
stretched her stems
to hold bright butterflies, bold beetles,
and bright blooms.

This poem was written in response to Margo’s prompt about self.

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3 thoughts on “My Self

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