By Poxy
There you stand
once again-
In that moment
The past;
Quiet, murmuring...
She brings you backward
A season of sad all her own
You see her there
through the window
eyes so green
they could cut an emerald
Her body/
small and fragile
A little girl
with tiny arms
in a stiff dress
An enigma destroyed
Her heart
Sundays dressed
In a mothers purse
Filled with prescriptions
Treasured dolls-
whose eyes rolled across
the kitchen table
and a beloved father
who remained silent.
Copyright © Angie Wassell | Year Posted 2016
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