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Childhood

Cold chilly mornings,
the Colorado snow building up.

Slipping a foot from under the covers,
Cautiously touching a toe,
onto the frigid wood floors.

Wrapping a plush comforter over the shoulder,
stealthily tip-toeing into the kitchen.

Crawling into the tacky birdhouse chair, turning on the Sunday cartoons.

The pure pleasure of knowing no ones awake, but Bubba.

And curled up softly in between the legs and chair.

The purity of innocence





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