From Tesora
I look at her hands
on my hands
on her stomach.
A baby.
I hope to see
into the future,
but all I see is
the basket of shadows
the lamplight makes
of our fingers.
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From Tesora
I look at her hands
on my hands
on her stomach.
A baby.
I hope to see
into the future,
but all I see is
the basket of shadows
the lamplight makes
of our fingers.
Posted on May 9, 2017 at 2:26 PM in About Fiction, About My Novels, Poem | RSS feed | Reply | Trackback URL
The illustration looks like Amity!…..
Picky, picky, picky . . . OK, ya got me. Correct photo inserted. Thanks to my favorite reader.
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