Gliding her hand over the fleece blanket,
smoothing out the texture
and fixing its delicate color,
she remedies the blotches from before.
With her thumb or finger
she'll draw a dark mark on the fleece,
and then smooth it out again
so it looks the same as before.
How long has she been doing this?
How many years has it been?
A tear falls off her cheek,
wishing all her blotches were as easy to erase.
1 comment:
i continue to be inspired by your sensitivity and insight. a lovely poem!
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