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Tuesday, March 6, 2007



I know that by the time Isabel reaches her teens
She'll want to read all the love letters Dad sent to Mom,

And Mother, ever attentive to the moral
order of the home,
Will have censored some details of delight,
until the child
Attains the age to possess the missives
in her own right.

And our son will study the photographs, taken when
His parents' passion was young;
he will marvel at his Mother's beauty
And from her beauty learn standards necessary
when choosing a wife of his own.

And our children will cherish the memory of how
we read to them
Night after night over the years until they fell asleep.

And their minds retain the cadence of nursery rhymes,
And the breathy note of excitement
in tales of heroic adventure,

And how stories of fantasy and magic create
memories of wonderful delight.

Their rooms teem with books, which later comprise
a library that remains the envy of posterity.

And most of all our children remember
the hugs and kisses,
The times they rode on our shoulders
their arms around our necks
The softness of our voice when we spoke to them,
The affection lavished without stint imparting
a calm warm within
And the happy soul evident
from childhood in a good home.

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