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Nov 2012
pale upturned face
seeking my approval
all the while stealing
glances at the old clock

I nod encouragement
even upon witnessing
tiny stumbles over words,
sharp precious stones

small fingers hold its spine
steadily turning pages
ancient as elms
trapped in wooden crates

their likeness not unlike mine
I marvel at flitting images
from my fleeting past
and savor in my mind

times when my own tiny fingers
held picture books, novels,
all the wonders of this world
and not yet had to cradle
a loved one turned to stone
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