From the soles of my walking shoes, I shake you out and s c a t t e r you.
In my sole, a part of you remains.
I find a tool, dig you out, keep you close –
potted and thriving, you grace my front door.
Every day, on my return from work, you greet me.
In the trenches of Flanders, you were grated into m i l l i o n s of pieces,
one of which, must surely have found me
and brought itself back home
Your soul in my sole.
|‘Yellow Rose’ courtesy of Pixabay.com
A yellow rose.