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Poem: March thirteenth


I remember

black chair
worn leather
frayed by time
cold steel frame
on my tiny hands
a I crawl up
waiting…

it is dark.
wood stove heat
strokes my cheeks
cup of warm milk
in my tiny hands
while mamma sings
“this is where the rabbit went;
fur soft and white like snow…”

sleep is in my head
wood crackles and pops
I can see flames dancing
through the lower grate
I rub my eyes
with my tiny hands
and drift away

I dream
my father snuggles me
up to my crib;
painted ducks
on pale yellow wood.

This
is pure
contentment.

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