Timeless Stories
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I hear only whispers—instructions, streams of information—
understandable on some level,
only the words are yet unformed.
On my walk to the Lake, I crave names.
Tamarack. Ovenbird. Winterberry.
Corona Borealis. Songs drift
from bellies of stones.
Some ask to be picked up and rubbed;
others prefer to nest in roots. And so
today the Lake welcomes me
as my shapeshifting elder
who assumes I will somehow
translate all the stories
churning timelessly inside her.
