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“Mama, Mama, Mama.”
They call like newborn birds.
They scramble to get to my criss-crossed lap.
They throw silky arms about my neck, downy feathers in the breeze.

I stop what I am doing, what I’ve not yet begun,
with an eye to future’s empty nest, my raising work all done.

 

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6 responses »

  1. Once again I love, love, love the textures in this poem: the criss-crossed lap, the silk and feathers and even the nest has a “feel” to it. The rhyme in the last couplet is wonderful as well as the nest hearkening back to the newborn birds at the beginning of the poem. Thank you for your gift of words. Love and light to you dear friend….God Bless.

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