Many times during the day's hours, lines of the 17th century rhyme, “Remember, remember the Fifth of November / Gunpowder, treason and plot ….” passed through my mind.
This is the day when I think about how deep colonial roots go and how hard it is for me to keep present in my mind the multiple origin stories that I now carry with me – especially since I am out moving rocks around that have been here long before settlers came here a few hundred years ago.
I forget about treason and rebellion for the time being.
I turn the poem around and say
“Remember, remember … the thousands of people who have watched the turning of seasons reflected in this lake, for millennials before you have stood here.
Arta
i love this post
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