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Distance
Distance
From the porch
I stare at the Easter Island head
that grows a mile distant,
stands guard, a totem,
while miles away my son
plays in the snow, grows
into someone I am yet to know.
The head’s lips pout -
does he know he’s the last?
Not another to be built,
only the wind and water
to erode the face
so plain already.
In the mountains my son
reads another letter
and here at home I wait
for a reply, my face,
reminiscent, stares across
time’s ruffled water.
Last edited by dannyboy : 05-05-2008 at 05:50 PM.
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