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Fireworks in the garden

burst into shooting stars

in awe at the red blue green rockets

of just turned three year olds

who dance for musical chairs

and the many layers of pass the parcel.

They hug and tumble and fight

over Paw Patrol cars as we look on

in the secret gasp of wonder

that they have made it this far,

that they are walking, talking little people.

 

As the sky explodes with their laughter,

I think please let me be here for this.

Whatever they need to cut

from the Catherine Wheel of my body,

whatever needs to be stripped

from the Guy Fawkes betrayal

of my inheritance, it does not matter

as long as I can still hold a little boy’s hand

and hear the intake of his breath

as it sparkles with life.

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