Cleaning out my nightstand drawer, I stumbled across a folded scrap of paper, dated 11/14/09. Enjoy.
To my children, a gift of words Naively homespun in common hours Dyed in life, stipped of pride, content to serve With hopes that in some night of biting cold We all in season must move through The knitting here will return once more To comfort and still a troubled soul For I stood once where you stand now Your worries are yours and yet also my own And so our love is ours as one Gleaned as it is from His above For the stitching here of grammar hopes To weave together something more Than the sum produced of feeble parts Does nothing less than bind our hearts
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Me (in words.)Sometimes I like to write. Not well, mind you. But I do it just the same. Archives
November 2018
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