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 reserve

