Good Thing Cows Don't Fly

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Childhood moments seep into the back of your head,
resting there for many years.
They are patient memories.
Fluttering about your skull,
where the finger tips of your mind brush against them.
Almost, almost touching
And it fills your soul like water,
until it tickles your heart.
Coughing, sputtering. Yearning.
But they are patient memories
And they will not come out.

But somewhere I knew
That I was a small child
Grass brushing my ankles like fingers
Waiting to grab hold and pull me down
And little blonde curls bounced on a little pale head
As I watched my little bare toes
Picking across the ground
And these little pale toes ran between stones
Stones where hero's lay
The heroes lay still and soft and quiet
And I moved across the ground with whispering feet
Like walking on porcelain dolls

Then I stopped
Standing atop a porcelain hero, knelt before a stone.
Mama gave me a rag
So little pink fingers wiped away the stains
Stains from insensitive birds
And underneath the little blond curls, all I could think...
What insensitive birds

That flew above the stones and left behind their dirt.
Then mama told me...
"Good thing cows don't fly."





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