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Sentinel Poetry: Expression Warehouse
DAVE GILL
My Kids
Like the flowers that reach for the sun, the child that has just begun his run, the wind blowing against the tree and the bird high and free.
I think of the scent of my fresh clean child, of the dew on the grass grown wild, laughter spilling forth from lips and my son spitting out pips.
The thought of the sun at its early rise catching the clouds in a moment of surprise the moon high bright and full the child reaching out to pull.
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