Her
A picture crept in,
Through all those memories,
Where I found myself ,
Besides my mother's knees,
When her brown hairs,
Gleamed red,
Fell on her shoulder,
Then dropped over my head.
When her hands fondled my forehead,
Stroked through my hairs,
When her words formed my babbles,
Her scolds,my care.
Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,
And make me again her four year old child.
Copyright © Curie Stark | Year Posted 2021
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