March 27, 2016

A precious
little thought,
A dream:
Don’t lose it, my child,
my model, my father. 
For when you cast away the quill of youth
It falls, it clunks
upon me – A feather
of lead –
As what you never wanted.

Rather, sweep aloft a blessed
memory of forsaken tears
And speak
your dreams
to the flutter of doves
aflight from our arms.  
Voice them, loud!  Tell me
what flowers you will bed
what colors we can bloom
how much we are
at heart,
in hand.

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