Hushed are the mornings,

not one chore yet to do.

The wind wafts over from my open window, cool and light.

The solid hardwood on my bare feet,

my mother singing, my little sister wanting to hold my hand. Someday she wont.

I am grateful for the time she does.

Somewhere, it is someones birthday.

Toay is someones wedding day.

maybe not mine. But the thought of someday.

This poem is about: 
My family
Our world


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