Each morning I wake to trails and tracks,
the footprints of lives lived and battles waged
under the frigid moonlit sky. And across
the lake, trees scattered, roots unearthed
from the tornado that tore. Further, the moraines
and the drumlins, the scattered boulders,
the gouged cliffs. And then the forested craters,
now wolves and pools and flowers. And I look
at myself, at my creases, my bags and my patches,
my marks of stories and stresses and adventures.
All of it—histories scarred yet persisted.