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Cradle your son, Mary.
He is gone a while.
Sunlight, refrigerated in earth.
Stored up, like breath
held - until we gasp
and catch it again -
Held in an egg, in a wing,
in a black eye, darting
- shiny and alert.
Held in the waiting
of thirst and hunger.
Held in a gliding flight
up a hill of wind that slopes
up, then down again,
the flyer floating
back down, silent as a blade of sun
that pierces a seed
and spills life into the ground.
Cradle your son, Mary.
He is gone a while.
~ Ruth M.
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