The strands of us all

lived in a tassled green pouch,

bound by thread and bloodline.

The house that held it

still holds my softest days

in dream sequence;

of them all, slow Sunday afternoons

out back, in the care of hands

that performed miracles -

a table for my dolls to dine,

a wardrobe for their clothes,

a seesaw solid enough

for every one ...

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