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by Jane Lang After the painting Walk in Beauty by Ann Huston This is where your words reach my ears touch my heart. This is the path we walked when I was young. I would bend down, pick up shiny rocks and you would say, “These are wishing stones.” You pointed across the water, told me the naked cottonwood held our secrets. I walk the path most days. I reach for the edges of the old, soft trade blanket and pull your love more securely around my shoulders. I look at the bare, strong, supple tree across the water, shiny rocks in my left hand. There will soon be a child, I whisper, a gift like the babe in the stable. Words from my heart to her ears. I gently rub the wishing stones.
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