Over and over,
I’ve been that
(wilted flowers in hand)
silhouette to a setting sun
on a dried-out hill
saying stoic goodbyes.
But when I close my eyes,
(from my earliest
slippery seconds),
I have always seen
a return to flight,
my remains scattered by the aching hands
of my family back to the
soft wet arms
of a briny sea.
how I’ll fly then —
as gently as cresting waves in
warmly breaking sunlight.
Poetry by JC Snyder 
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