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For My Granddaughter
by Catherine Chandler


Moriah holds my hand in early June.
Though soon
the lilies we admire will wither, still,
she will
be happy in our fugitive vignette.
Forget-
me-nots we’ll pick, blue thistle, fern rosette,
hawkweed, trillium, wild columbine:
an afternoon perennially mine,
though soon she will forget.

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