Sentinel Poetry: Expression Warehouse

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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