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A painting on a stark
office wall
caught my eye.
It was a soft scene of
a small boy, his
overalled back to
the beholder, crossing
a field of golden,
waist-high grass
towards a green orchard.
Beyond were purple hills
and the blue cloudless sky.
A blue-green brook rushed
off a corner;
one tiny hand held
a hat firm on golden
locks from a
summer breeze.
He was free, and off
to explore, play
and imagine.
The youth held my gaze,
and for an instant,
before my name was called,
I was my father
watching me.

Joseph I. Middlesworth

By ishmael

© 2019 ishmael (All rights reserved)


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