I dream of leaving something
behind like a buck rub
on a sapling that would make
a good walking stick, something firm,
something to hold on to
holding a sign to take
the one the walking stick was made
for deeper in the woods
where dreams have a better
chance to come true,
the sapling holding the scars
of antlers, the heart scars,
in a firm grip on the stick,
meld into the sapling's wound,
the possibility of dreams
that can come true.
The scars that dreams are born from.
Byron Hoot
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