*Honorable Mention in the Carolina Woman Magazine Writing Contest*

In blades of tender grass 
and opulent black 
raspberry bushes edging the woods, I look 
for myself.

Barefoot, I pad along the steaming road, 
incense of sun-ripened pine 
filling my breast, these green giants incline 
toward me with every zephyr, benevolent 
nudging toward an exploration 
I cannot see.

My hands and lips are 
sticky with nectar berry, 
I'm green at the knees, 
jewels of dew drops and 
slugs garnish my legs: glittering 
stockings. Tiny sun-yellow 
cowslips and Queen Anne's lace 
crown my hair, speckle my skin.

I am neither girl 
nor child 
nor lost 
nor found, 
embraced and subsumed.

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