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Click hereAlways take the back roads, those winding
Low hung trails that crunch with dirt and gravel,
Muddy when wet on bicycle tires spinning
Out childhood joys woven from scrapes and kisses—
Spindles weaving magic. When you reach that final crook in the way,
Turn. Look back and reflect on what time will steal, then
Honor it's worth by taking that bend,
Open palmed grasplessness, content at once was.
Memory is precious, but here and now remains, requests
Embrace. Back roads always lead home.