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Half-witted Poetry


Fire bright,
leaves that once were green.
They signal me into my home.
Bushes as backgrounds 
for growing children.
Heralds of change.

The red came much too early this year,
a snap of frost confusing them.
But heat returned,
they halted their change,
and waited for true fall.
I shivered at the color they intended,
and closed my eyes to block it out.

But now the red is finishing,
creeping over the leaves,
from one end of those bushes to the other.
And I realize,
as I shut my eyes at them,
that it is time to open wide,
and drink the bright red in.


Each item in its place,
and I breathe.
It's a way to make things right.
Clean a drawer,
order a closet,
throw out the bags of garbage and 
move the furniture, if you will.
When nothing else can be changed
or ordered.
At least all this
will do as I say.
For now.


He tightens his arms around my shoulders,
not my neck - not like his brother before.
He holds my whole self in those tiny arms,
and leans right in.

There are days,
he hugs me tight,
not to say hello,
not to give me love,
but to pull me up,
as though he can lift me.
And make me do his bidding.

Three times as big, 
the Momma he tries to move,
his little legs straining at the lift.
He smiles when I stand,
doing just as he says,
and squeezes me tight,
to say that he approves.


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