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Friday, December 22, 2006

Eight? It's been EIGHT?

That's the oldest, eight years and a few months ago, still too small for an infant carseat at almost a month old. This evening, that same tiny, yellow baby announced he had written a poem.

Snow
When the white snow falls,
clouds sometimes are gone
and sometimes are here.
We play in the snow.
When we have hot cocoa,
that makes us warm.

I know eight years seems like a long time, but believe me when I say it has leapt past me, startling, and leaving me dazzled in the wake.
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