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Momma's Ballerina

Her smile takes her face over when she laughs,
And in her eyes, 
I am the center of the universe. 
The wisdom of the ages meets child-like wonder
In the tiny blur that is the slight frame in perpetual motion.
Watch me dance, Momma.  Ballet first, right Momma?
“That’s right, Megan, feet in third.”
Then she sits suddenly motionless 
To fixate on Elmo’s World 
But for only a moment
After that, she just as abruptly returns to her own
Demanding that I turn to watch

As Time Goes By

Once, soft and new, he craved my touch,
A mother’s hand to stroke his cheek
And dry his tears.
When did his scraped knees become immune
To the kisses that had always 
Healed his wounds before?
No longer one for showy displays 
Of affection,
Today the closest he allows me 
Is buying the Stridex pads 
That now stroke the cheek that I caressed.
His love takes the form 
Of wrestling holds;
A hug of sorts—I guess.

Child's Play

They never see the shades of gray
That are added to the world’s simple 
Black and white.
No hidden agendas
Give dual meanings to their promises,
And a pinkie-swear is unbreakable.
A kiss will heal most wounds,
And weapons are just pretend—
Turning the art of war
Into a game 
Ending by suppertime.

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