Laughing At the Door
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Laughing at the Door
I walked out the front door,
never meaning to interrupt.
I was feeding the old bread,
to the morning birds.
I do that every night before,
I go to bed.
It is not new.
Near the side of the house,
there in the dark,
small voices,
sharing an interment moment.
One that they will keep,
for the rest of their lives.
I am quiet,
I hurry.
I am unnoticed.
That is okay.
I do not want to be,
an intruder.
I like the way he makes her laugh.
Perhaps he may be the one?
If not, there is always time,
to consider options…
in the garden of
tomorrow.
I have potatoes and carrots
yet to put in.
Copyright © Ann Foster | Year Posted 2019
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