The bluffs you say
the bluffs

and I try to imagine them
holding his ashes

a smidgen of him
nestled in a crevice

which remains dark
and cool despite the Shawnee sun

beheld by damselflies
the river singing him

lullabies all day and all night
in all seasons

never mourning
never guilt aggrieved 

just her green 
sacramental waters

soiled with tears
flooded with prayer.


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