There are pieces of me scattered all around -
Some easy to see; some never again to be found.
Pieces in the hearts and souls of the children I have raised;
Pieces in the poems I write – each and every rhyming phrase.
Every hand that I have ever shook, every person I have hugged,
Are stained with a piece of me, like catching a seasonal bug.
Whether that piece stays where it lands, or falls off like a flake,
Depends upon the impression made – but its there, make no mistake.
You see me standing here today, and believe that I am whole,
But the pieces I have left behind, complete the story my life has told.