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Beautiful, gentle, familiar

Their blue eyes gaze up at us

So full of hope and trust

Reflections of ourselves

And of all we have become

Those hands, their tapered fingers

Holding fast on to our own

Full of tenderness, gently strong

Reflected in the soft pressure

Our own pulses beating steadfast

The long feathery blonde fluff

Passing only barely as hair

Pure, untouched with hints of mischief

Reflects in its downy, silky touch

All that is pure, real, unspoiled

Our children – pieces of our souls – reflections of ourselves.

Karen Quinn 1999


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