Yesterday's poem, following the prompt at Poetic Asides. It's about something hidden, but I kept mixing it up in my mind as something lost. Therefore, I combined them.
Not the Same as Lost
In the mossy hollow
of a wizened willow tree
where sleeping seasons
rest in rings wound round
a sunken core,
there lies a time
when rains fell
in lavish veils
over young, strong
outstretched arms
and green coiled out
in fiddlehead finery
to shadow the brush
beneath.
There,
almost concealed,
a flash of eye
the tip of wing
a breath of old
wilderness
not lost
but hidden.
Safe,
unseen.
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