elysabeth faslund Poems
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Children's Eyes, Children's Toys
What are seasons but children's soft dreams, and
Sunrise, their opening eyes?
Seeing at a glance
The days and years open...waiting,
Fringed with softness, or
Laced with abandon...
Like playing dress-up in the attic
With Aunt Dorothy's hat and gloves...
Not remembering the season
She died in childbirth...
Ready to hear the story and pass it
Beyond their years...
To other ages.
Like playing with 'Bunny' in a toy crib,
Feeding her, patting, hugging...
Not yet realizing it is their son or
Daughter's crib...in a ...
Even the hollow reed voices across sand, dry plains,
Startling lilt, notes we can remember.
We can forget. Forgetting is our salvation,
When memory is destroyed, we are spared
No further life.
Peace be with you.
With you, Father.