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A Fleeting Thing
I think about those days of innocence
back . . . when I was young
I played for hours in mom's garden
with my pets
among her pretty flowers
and bird songs drifting
the world had not touched me yet
I had no scars on my soul
no pain in my heart
no nightmares haunted my dreams
I heard no whispers calling me
I loved my dolls
teddy bears and books
and my room at the top of the stairs
in our old home
the wood floors where I would slide
and the claw foot tub
I knew nothing of cruelty
war was not even a word yet
I was loved
and I loved too . . .
and that was enough
is that why those years are so cherished
so beautifully recalled
but innocence is gone
for it is a fleeting
thing . . .
Copyright ©
Constance La France
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