Rooted My roots, you say, well I'll tell you this: Dad's only wish that summer was to catch that fish. Worms on hooks. Flies on lines cast in air. Right from the start he said, I’m smarter than any fish. But it hid in the tendril roots, gills breathing, nebulous green leaves like shade from heaven. His great regret, and he had a few, was catching that fish that outwitted him for years. And you ask me, how far back can I trace my roots, and I'll say I trace the whole of me to my dad. I needn't look more.
Written for Bloganuary: How far back does your family tree go. Image: AI Digital Art is mine and created using Midjourney’s bot (v4). Image and poem ©Misky 2023 Shared on Twitter #amwriting
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