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by Janet Sleeper Frostad

It's not always perfect.
But now, this cloudless day,
the crayon red and yellow beach ball
stopped, this moment, blocking the sun.

This is perfect.

Sunlit hair fanning like a dancer's skirt.
Eyes inescapably blue and your
woodpecker laugh punctuating
the afternoon.


You send the ball skyward once more
with a pop of your small fingers.
The holiness of a moment caught in midair.
Primary fire and cool blue.

Like you.


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