His first birthday, altered

Standard

With each breath, we commune.
Essential now as air, you’ve become
everything.
The scent of pine.
The cold rush of stream
over ancient tumble of stone
worn smooth by endless caress.
The withered russet flowers
in the winter garden,
reduced to unadorned
yet still lovely
stalks,
which pledge
much more
soon.

© Julie Ayers
12/10/11

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About Julie Ayers

Seasoned apocaloptimist, keen admirer of well-placed words, fierce mama bear of extra special children, black belt hugger, and advocate for a fashion rebellion which elevates the most human of hearts to socially acceptable outerwear.

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