Every once in a while, never as often as I might like, I write a poem that I would want my son, when he is older and I may have walked on to another stage of being, to read an remember: I love him.
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The sprout to sprig creates
leafy spread. How quick -
He repeats the same joke, over and over, trying different punch lines, till he can find the one that makes me laugh. He calles me a pickle
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Parents are scarred by youth.
Children ravage the heart often . -
In the face of petulance and forbodding
I will ignore my reservations and and reserve31 lines, 19 comments, on Jul 13 8:25 PM 2008. In Love, Wry humor, Parentiing, Adolescence, Spiritual -
Come walk with me,
the waters by the stream are clear. -
Hush! Or I’ll
give you something -
I told my son
If you want to be seen as important: actively
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