Angie

My little huntress. You pull me along like a ship’s sail billowing, dragging my reluctant stagnant heart toward joy for your thoughts and your ways are simple, guileless and true.

You take in at this very moment, every rustling leaf, flying bird, small scurrying thing. The minutest detail of being, the soft scent language of the breeze, and those savory ghosts left behind in the night by some prowling thing that vanished into the undergrowth. You revel in its fragrance, scrutinize and consider.

And what surprise might come around the bend? You are neither nationalist nor patriot, nor are you swayed by ancient texts or great ambitions. You do not see the differences in features or colors or language. Everyone is your friend, and I am drawn along in your wake, offering up explanations.

And should you come to a crossroads, you stall with a backward glance inquiring, “Are you coming? Will you be right along? I cannot lose sight of you.”
My little beggar. At the end of the day you wait and wait casting about sad eyes until the time is right. You love everyone but you worship at my feet. You lean into me and caress my cheek, you lean into me and you sleep. And all I can hope is that, though I will not have you for all my days, that we will have us for all of yours.

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