I stand on earth and think,
“Who am I?”
Who are we together? I ask,
while melding into an identity
long sense lost.
Long forgotten.
Who am I?
“Who are we?!” I shout,
the collective; the hunter, the gatherer, the gardener.
What have we lost in the chaos of our own ambition?
What have we gained if not trouble and toil?
The collective; the forgotten souls of those lost, not yet found;
yet we are together in our forgotten-ness.
As we go, and grow, and gain
we forget who we were
In the beginning.
And at the end of all things forgotten,
there is something worth finding;
as if that “thing” long lost is what we need most
to remember what needs remembering.
Am I going in circles?
Good.
Because that’s what we do, is it not?
When we chase what is as finite as the wind,
yet forget what is clearly before us…
Our right of passage. Our future, and middle, and past.
It is who we were, what we are, and that which we will always be,
yet we forget. We forgot.
And the Earth cries the tears of a thousand winds,
a hundred hurricanes,
a dozen earthquakes
until we remember… who we were at the beginning.
The Gardener.
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