Ode

It was a week of love.

Notes etched in tender remembrance,
Wobbly smiles with welling eyes,
Flowers, family, friends,
Hot soup and hugs,
Rainbows.

C, it was a priviledge to share the moments as they unfolded
and find magnitude in the miniscule as well as the monumental.



They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun, and in the morning,
we will remember them.
L. Binyon


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