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Wabi-sabi
“Your daughter stares,”
my mother whispered;
as she lay naked on the bed.
A smile of pleasure crossed her face
while the nurse
gently caressed her frail body
with a soft, warm sponge.
“Don’t you turn away,”
sensing my discomfort.
I look
at the scars
of birth, of falls from trees
of old repairs,
and new.
“She is young,” I say
“Scared”
“Poppycock; see, she’s smiling at me,”
my mother whispered;
“she looks in a mirror.”
Copyright ©
Terry Miller
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