My Sixth-Seventh Year
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my
My sixty-seventh March 13
Hoarse, the lion roar is fading;
the lamb sneaks up again.
Hot, another birthright tallied;
the candles are so dense.
Black, the coated wicks will smolder;
they huddle upon cake.
come to me, whom I’ve remembered;
come to me for whom I’ve ached.
©Kathryn McLoughlin Collins
March 2012
Copyright © Kathryn Collins | Year Posted 2012
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