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To My Sons

Should the world steal the wonder of once-young eyes,
or the innocent arrogance of knowing nothing of death,
whether dog’s, or mother’s, or God’s:

take to new-leafed sugar maples, to snowy turf, to catfish pond
and autumn’s scent of sweet decay, to winter’s sparrow songs
over melting omens running through creek bed sluice.

There find salvation’s building block, the first sacrament
of creation—take, eat, and remember—that first pushed
baby-taut skin into the crescent of an unburdened smile.

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