by Barbara Morrison

The poem that is in me
Tugging like diaper pins
Between the milky sweet
Sleepy babyskin
And stitching up bloody heads
Rescuing and aiding the injured
And spending the day
Snuggling in a blanket
Blueberry picking
Meeting for lunch
Canoeing, all of us

The poem that is in me
As he runs out of the bus
And will never know that I cry
With each small victory
Knowing if he can do this
I did it right

The poem in his face
Gazing up at me
Weedling a deal
Striking a compromise
And broadly grinning as he feels me
Meet him half way.

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