Thursday, March 29, 2007

The Bridge.



Soft, pink hand clasps dry and worn.
Sweet treble voice blends with low and calm.
Small feet dance round walking brogues.

Sun rains down through Oak leaves rustling.
Gravel scrunches, sprinklers tap, tap.
Whispering water across grass.

One squeals, the other laughs. One spins, the other claps.
One falls, the other cries out, feeling her pain.
So close the connection.

In the dancing shade, I am the bridge
Where two souls meet; my mother, my daughter.
Time, age. All an illusion.



The End

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