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Selection 10 of

Connection

by John Kent
From the field
a whippoorwill calls,
the moonbeams dart;
the wind lovingly carries
the night sounds.
The years peel back to the days
I held my mother's hand;
her hair soft in the moonlight,
her eyes sparkling,
her voice vibrant
telling me of life and dreams.

I was seven,
she was wise, warm
and wonderful.
I loved her to the fullest extent
of my being.

The years have sailed
with the wind of night.
I've heard her calling,
felt her hand upon my cheek,
the love in her heart;
but never again,
her hair, soft in the moonlight
or the sparkle in her eyes,
or the smile on her face.
Often I have asked God
why did you take her,
when I was ten?



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