Jennifer Brock

He Is My Son

You are the living, you are the dead,
It is these words he has often read.
'In Flander's Field the poppys grow
between the crosses row on row.'

He trusts in the Lord, for he is only eleven,
Believing for everything there is a purpose under heaven.
He was the future you could only dream,
In his reflection you see just how much you mean.

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