Heritage
I am from the mangled messes of the trees.
From the range of precipitous ridges and rounded, wizened peaks.
Agate blending in so well, barely found,
begs to be seen by the ramblers found in the thicket.
My eyes betray me, compelling me to see werewolves placidly waiting among the hardwood.
Hidden waterfalls sing stories, from the vanishing past.
I can see the crimson aurora climbing up the indigo peaks.
I see the navy blue haze blanketing the bewildering mountains,
as the brook harmonizes with the cardinals.
My vengeful thoughts are released to the colorful gale.
I can feel the bountiful soil underneath my bare feet.
The red tree ever so patiently waits for you to say her name,
Rhododendron sings to the children picking off her colorful blossoming petals.
I am the peaks and I am the trees, I am the brook as well as the gale.
I know the songs sung that are my history.
-Ab Triplett, freshman
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