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Stepping away to look at myself,
I see a story, a book on the shelf.
Worn at the edges and slightly faded,
The cover is still eye-catching, though barely decorated.
Within, layers of pages I see sights; sounds,
From pastoral nights to city lights and circus clowns,
Then off into the world is where I bound
To exotic cultures and secrets found.
Others shaped and molded my mystery,
As I returned with new old eyes to teach my history.
Then critics rebuffed my character’s quest for adventure,
When I looked for fresh chapters to define my future.
Now that my character’s circumstances are dire;
Does my book absorb heaviness, water and fire.
For the Cape, with all its natural beauty and storybook wonder,
Belies the themes of our world, our country; our blunders.
A late bloomer’s tale I hope to share,
With others who’ve hoped, cared and dared.
For my story’s half written and I’ve decades to diminish,
With memories to sustain me until I’m finished.

Wendy Shreve

Wounded warrior


Wounded warrior, praised as hero, embraced in glory,
Time becomes your greatest enemy,
Too soon forgotten; too soon left to begin again.
We who honor you today cannot let you fade away.
Fleeting accolades cannot replace continuous support,
As you begin–again.

Wendy Shreve

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