Softly


When the days no longer puddle
like years in my hands,
and when the hours become
minutes again, I will commend
my motherís pain to the bright sunlight.

She will not find it there,
nor any other fear
that preys upon her sleep at night.

Only the breeze, calling softly
from the end of the world,
and the peace of an infinite lullaby.

July 10, 2006

























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