for Lane when he was born

gorgeous dark boy,
black hair & bittersweet chocolate eyes,
gifted with the shimmering magic rhythms of dreams,
his mother is my sisterfriend.
she worships his tiny sleeping image
&
so do I
swimming in the wind
flying in the sun
behind the sky of liquid time, he is a man
could he recall?
if not,
you must tell him
how easy it was to love him
in those soaring shining sacred moments.


All writing contained in this website 1998-2005 by Betty A. Parker



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