Before the Night Becomes Cold

There was a tomboy…her head filled with doubt.

I see her everytime a screendoor slams.

I offer her vacant lot praises.

Whatever the effort put forward…my help is never wanted…

it is in the manner in which she stands.

In many ways, she and I are one.

Running, hobbling into a fiery orange ball of sun.

Using our play money to pay back all who climbed the paneling…

To all who disappeared to soon.

This rough and tumble, wild and wooly, soul, I grab her at night when does not do as told.

With rustic hands and solemn grace…I attempt to wrap her in flannel before the night becomes too cold.

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