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By Natasha Waldfogel

Sun sow’s early mornings into a mothers’ flesh—

Wounded by time, cervices, hovering below flesh.

Deep crevices grow to canyons—

Nature reaping the benefits of dying flesh.

A man that didn’t father children—

Morphs into children’s father in the flesh.

Color lost in strands of hair once dark, full—

Now thin, white, blending dull flesh.

Tears create quietness so noisy—

Only remnants of warm touches linger on saggy flesh.

Bury the love, hugs, kisses, warmth, and thoughts—

Beneath countless grains of dirt they lie, naked of flesh.

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