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by Judith K. Witherow

The mountains were
awaiting me,
just as I believed
they would.
Neither condemning nor
knowing that surface
is surface.
Waiting for the unveiling
of underneath,
for feelings long forgot
to spill out.
An echo to careen across
the mountains,
repeated in unremitting
I'm home, I'm home
for good;
what others forsake
nature reclaims.

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